


the heartlines on your hand

by shirozora



Series: the tarot card is horses [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Asian Inquisitor, I'm in Dragon Age hell, M/M, Multi, POC Inquisitor, graysexual character, specifically post-In Hushed Whispers, time travel-induced trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 17:06:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 148,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3617607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirozora/pseuds/shirozora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>“Started after Redcliffe, didn’t it?”<br/><br/>He goes still, something in his chest pulling tightly at the name. Dorian sighs knowingly, tiredly, and Maxwell now sees the dark circles under the mage’s eyes, the worry lines creasing his face. He hasn't been dealing well with what happened in Redcliffe, either.<br/><br/>"I try not to let most things get to me, or at least I pretend not to. But that future we saw, that's not something one easily forgets."</p><p>---</p><p>  <em>This fantasy, this fallacy, this tumbling stone.</em><br/><em>Echoes of a city that's long overgrown.</em><br/><em>Your heart is the only place that I call home.</em><br/><em>Can I be returned?</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. threnodies 5: after the hush

**Author's Note:**

> The series' description/ and notes provide the World State I used for my canon Inquisitor. This story is an amalgamation of many headcanons. They include strong opinions about certain characters and their roles in the game as well as plenty of middle fingers at Bioware's decisions. 
> 
> In Hushed Whispers was intriguing and engaging in the most horrific and potentially traumatic of ways, which means of course I'll write something based on the possible aftermath of that time travel disaster. _Of course_.
> 
>  
> 
>  **2/2/2017 Update:** After a lot of time, consideration, and stress, I decided to reorganize, rewrite, and continue writing this story. I love my Inquisitor too dearly to let this story die. A good chunk of this fic was written for the '16 NaNo and added over 50,000 words so expect this to be a long (and hopefully satisfying) read.

The nightmares begin on the road back to Haven.

He bolts upright with a gasp, sweat on his brow and soaking through his shirt. A single thought runs through his mind as he untangles himself from his bedroll and stumbles out of the tent into the cold.

“Herald?” a soldier asks, startled. “Ser?”

Maxwell stares at the sky; the Breach is visible but contained, swirling slowly high above the Frostback Mountains. It hasn’t spread and devoured the night, hasn’t ripped the world apart. He’s safe. They’re all safe. Whatever - _whoever_ \- created it hasn’t claimed Thedas yet. He still has time.

“Ser?” the soldier asks again, coming up behind him. “Are you all right?”

He turns to her with a weak smile because it’s all he can do. He rakes a shaking hand through disheveled black hair and says, “I’m all right. Don’t worry about me.”

The soldier looks unconvinced but she doesn’t question him again. She lingers and he says, “You can go back to your post. I won’t wander far.”

She salutes him reluctantly and trudges away to join the others around a nearby campfire. Maxwell then turns gray eyes heavenward to watch the Breach for a few minutes more.

When he falls asleep again, he dreams of a green sky tearing away the earth underfoot and demons crawling through the bloody streets of Ostwick.

* * *

Word reaches the deep recesses of the Hinterlands faster than Leliana’s ravens fly. Every day, more mages emerge from the woods and abandoned villages, offering their talents and knowledge to the Inquisition in return for protection against rogue templars and an angry world.

“Five more for the enchanter,” Cassandra says, watching a group of bedraggled mages follow two soldiers to the former Grand Enchanter’s camp. “How do we know that they’re sincere? How do we know they want to help instead of using us as a shield to hide their activities?”

The sun is setting, casting everything in rich shades of red and orange, and the mages’ staves glint in the light. The vivid sunset still pales in comparison to the Breach.

“We don’t,” Maxwell says, “but we need the help.”

“Then petition the templars next,” Cassandra replies. “For now, I’m posting more guards around the perimeter and telling the Grand Enchanter to watch for signs. I’ll not have the new alliance fall apart over some apostates thinking they have permission to do whatever they want.”

“They’re all apostates,” he says. “They’re outside their Circles. Have been for years.”

She sighs. “I’ll try not to bring that up.”

He watches her walk away. He blinks and for one breathless second she’s glowing a sickly red, the dissonant song of red lyrium humming all around her. The moment passes and he realizes it’s just a trick of the light, the setting sun fooling his mind. He rubs his face and looks away, tells himself that she’s alive, whole and hale. Like Varric. Like the rest of the Inquisition.

Maxwell stares at the mages’ camp a little longer, until the sky becomes purple and the first of the moons rises above the mountains. He made the right decision, didn’t he? The former Grand Enchanter made a mistake but she was cornered and couldn’t see any other way out. He may not be a mage but he knows how that feels, how desperation can drive someone to make the foolish choice.

This isn’t a fool’s decision. This is the Herald’s. Andraste chose him and he thinks She would’ve wanted this. Right?

“What do you think, Evie?” he asks softly of his older sister, now an apostate wandering through the wilds in the Marches many miles north of where he stands. “What would you have done?”

He wishes she was here with their older brother and sister, former templars who turned on their knight-commander when the Ostwick Circle fell. They understood the broken system better than he ever would but the three of them should be hiding near Ansburg, waiting for Divine Justinia’s Conclave to bring back some semblance of order.

He clenches his left hand tightly, feeling the strange mark throb on his palm, and walks back to the Inquisition camp.

That night he dreams of spider mandibles clicking all around him and jointed legs skittering in the dark. Demons flay his siblings alive with slivers of red lyrium and Evelyn cries out while twisted bony fingers peel off her freckled golden skin.

_“They came for us. You weren’t there to stop him and and the Breach rained demons on us. You were supposed to close the Breach and you didn’t! You left us!”_

_“I’d never leave you!”_

_“It ate the sky. The Inquisition collapsed and Orlais fell. The Elder One came for us. He sent his demon army and they blighted the land. They destroyed everything. Everyone’s dead. They’re all dead because of you. You abandoned us. You ran away when we needed you most. How could you do this to us? How could you? How could you!”_

He bolts upright, gasping, heart pounding. Blackwall is awake, too, a dagger in hand. The Warden lowers it when he realizes there’s no imminent danger.

“You all right?”

Maxwell scrubs his face, pushing back damp hair. “I - I’m fine.”

“Sounds like a bad dream.”

“You could say that.” He sees the faint warm glow of a campfire through the thick canvas of the tent and kicks free of his bedroll. “I need some air. Don’t stab me when I come back.”

Blackwall chuckles. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Maxwell crawls out of the tent, shivering when chilly air swirls around his sweaty skin. This close to the mountains, snow covers the ground in patches and his breath fogs as he walks to the campfire. The soldiers huddled around it leap to their feet when they see him. He holds his hands up before they can salute and then immediate drops them to his side when the soldiers stare at his left palm.

“That’s not necessary,” he says. “Um. Anything to report?”

“No, ser, nothing right now,” one of them replies. “Been quiet the last three or so hours. You need not worry.”

“That’s good,” Maxwell says. The soldiers continue standing at attention, watching the faint green glow on his hand, and he quickly says, “You may… return to your post. I’ll just be over there. And stay warm.”

He walks away before someone else can get a word in or salute him. He climbs a hill crowned with a stand of scraggly pine trees and stares up at the Breach. It swirls lazily, crackling eerie green like the mark on his hand. He’s holding his breath and lets it go but his chest still feels tight with anticipation, with dread.

Something flashes out of the corner of his eye and he glances down the slope at the mages’ camp. If he squints, he can make out people sitting around a few fires but they’re not the ones spellcasting at this hour. Someone is out in the field beyond the tents, littering the ground with fiery mines and snuffing them out in a flash. Violet-tinged lightning crackles over the snow-dusted grass, and Maxwell’s strongly reminded of his sister’s preference for destructive primal spells.

He stands on the hill for a long time, rubbing his cold arms while watching the mage slowly blacken the ground around them. Eventually, a patrol catches wind of the activity and moves towards the camp. The mages still awake at this hour then start shouting at the one out in the field to stop. Maxwell turns and goes back to his tent.

* * *

“So,” the Iron Bull says while Maxwell catches his breath, “what do you make of the Vint?”

He wipes sweat off his brow before adjusting the wooden buckler on his arm. “Who?”

Haven’s a half-day’s march away. The mountainsides echo with the crackling roar of the Breach overhead, and the mages stare at the magical anomaly with awe and horror. Maxwell caught Fiona looking up at the sky, too, but her eyes are hard and her mouth grim with the knowledge that her mages are the world’s best hope of closing it.

Maxwell knows that feeling all too well.

“That Tevinter mage,” the Iron Bull is saying. “You sure he should stick around?”

He blinks at the Qunari mercenary and then over his shoulder at the bustling camp. “He’s still here?”

“You didn’t know? He’s with the mages - sort of. They don’t trust him, either.”

“I had no idea. I thought he left after Redcliffe.”

The aftermath was sheer chaos. Castle and village emptied of mages as soon as Maxwell and the former Grand Enchanter announced their alliance, and he lost sight of Dorian. He had a furious King Alistair to placate and the fates of the magister Gereon Alexius, his son Felix, and surviving Venatori agents to decide on; the “Vint” ended up slipping his mind. If he thinks about it, he might have overlooked a lot more than the status of his Tevinter ally.

Why do they assume he can handle all of these responsibilities?

“Well, he didn’t. I’m guessing he wants to talk to someone about this Venatori cult as soon as we get back to Haven.” The Iron Bull raises his buckler and hefts the wooden stick in his other hand. “Shields up!”

Maxwell lifts his just in time to block a blow and then retaliates with a swing at the Qunari’s exposed side. They keep at it for another hour, slowly gaining a small crowd of onlookers; the match ends when Maxwell tries to brace himself for the Iron Bull’s next charge and gets thrown back into the crowd.

He sits up with a huff of winded laughter. “I think that’s enough for today. Rematch at Haven?”

“Sure thing, Boss.”

He waits for the crowd to disperse before depositing the buckler and stick with the requisitions officer and going to the stream winding through the camp. He stomps on the ice before crouching to splash water all over his face and neck. The water is frigid, just like everything and everywhere this high up in the Frostbacks, but it’s a welcome respite.

He goes still at the sound of hesitant footsteps and looks over his shoulder at the mage leaning against a young crooked pine.

“Quite a show you put on back there,” Dorian says casually. “Didn’t think you’d last a second against that brute.”

Maxwell laughs, wipes water off his face, and stands. “Seriously? After what we went through, you think I can’t swing a sword? And his name’s the Iron Bull.”

“A name I’m sure he picked out himself with no small amount of effort,” Dorian says. “Anyway. I want to talk to you about your… Inquisition.”

“What about it?”

The mage folds his arms tightly while looking around at the soldiers, runners, and the occasional mage crossing the camp. “I talked with Felix before he left. Thank you, by the way, for the escort. Can’t imagine that being a popular decision.”

“It’s the least I could do,” Maxwell says.

It was a very unpopular decision, though Cassandra and the others quieted once Maxwell reminded them that Felix was the reason why they even heard of the Venatori. He also remembers a hollow-eyed Leliana cutting Felix’s throat, driving Alexius to grief and madness. Felix will die no matter what happens, but he’ll die in his homeland, not on the side of the road or in the halls of a broken castle. Not if Maxwell has any say in it.

“I’m sorry for what happened here,” Felix had said in the castle’s courtyard, apologetic even though he didn’t cause any of it. “Thank you for showing my father mercy. And please, look after him for me.”

Maxwell thought Felix was talking about his father, a reasonable request despite what Alexius did trying to save him from the Blight sickness. Now, hearing the fondness and gratitude in Dorian’s voice, he realizes that Felix was talking about someone else.

“Were you two close?” he asks.

“The only one I would call a friend,” Dorian says. “When I was Alexius’s student, he made every effort to be kind to me, which was… well. Anyway, we believe your little Inquisition may encounter more Venatori agents in the coming weeks and months, probably to stop you from closing the Breach and ruining this so-called Elder One’s plans. You’ll need someone on your side who knows how to counter them, and who better than me?”

He smiles disarmingly, arms unfolding and hands held out, palms up. He must know all too well how people see him, how much they distrust people like him. That would explain why he’s wandering through camp without his stave, but who is he trying to convince? Maxwell doesn’t fear who Dorian is. A mage sister and several hours together in a harrowing future erased whatever reservations he had about an alliance with a Tevinter magister’s son.

Maxwell’s heart flutters for a breathless second as he smiles back and says, “Welcome to the Inquisition.”

* * *

_The corridor won’t end. At every turn, they’re met with another dank hallway, water dripping down the slick stone walls to pool at their feet as they run and run. The air fairly sings with red lyrium, prickling up his spine and setting his teeth on edge, and he’s not even a mage. He can’t imagine how the Tevinter mage is handling it._

__“Kaffas,” _Dorian hisses when they turn left into another empty hall._

_“That mean something?” Maxwell asks. He leans against the wall, catching his breath._

__“Shit,” _Dorian replies with feeling. “If I knew I needed to run this much. I’d have stayed in Val Royeaux.”_

_Maxwell laughs. It chokes at the back of his throat when his left hand abruptly seizes up. He looks at it in alarm, thinking it’s reacting to a rift somewhere, and then tries to pry it away from the red lyrium growing through the stone around it, on it, through it. Lyrium pushes through muscle and bone, bursts out of his skin and armor. He falls to a knee, trying to breathe through the pain, eyes burning with tears as lyrium crawls up his arm._

_“Dorian!” But he’s the only one in his endless hall underneath Redcliffe Castle, the only one watching the red lyrium rip his arm apart and move relentlessly towards his shoulder, his chest, his beating heart. “Anyone there? Help me! Please!”_

_Unearthly green crackles and shatters, spilling demons into the castle’s underbelly. Maxwell reaches for his greatsword but his right hand finds air and then red lyrium erupts form his collarbone. He screams and then chokes as lyrium pushes out of the back of his throat. Red seeps into his eyes and he doesn’t know if it’s blood or lyrium._

_A demon’s spindly claws reach for his head. With his last choking breath, he wrenches himself away from it and_ off the bed.

He kicks away the sweat-soaked sheet and stares up at the ceiling, trying to breathe. His heart pounds. His throat is raw and his body aches all over, like he’d been throwing himself at the wall for an hour. He lies there, heaving for air, and then hears voices, the nightwatch whispering outside the cabin in low nervous voices. He should - he needs to calm them, ask them to forget what they heard, and send them on their way. Nobody needs the rumors.

Nobody needs to know the Herald has a frail mind.

Maxwell staggers to his feet and reaches for the mud-stained coat he left hanging over the back of his chair. His leather gloves are on the rickety wooden table, half-hidden under letters and salvaged books. Nights here are so cold and he needs to hide his vivid mark. He knots his faded silk sash around his waist and takes a steadying breath before opening the door.

The five men and women standing outside his cabin snap their mouths shut and hastily salute him. He recognizes one of them from the road, when the night terrors first drove him out into the dark. She nods sympathetically and turns to the others. “The Herald is all right. You didn’t hear or see nothing. Off you go.”

The others cast doubtful glances over their shoulders as they trudge back to their routes. She keeps her eyes lowered while quietly adding, “I will not speak of this if that’s what you wish.”

“Thank you, uh….”

“Sergeant Katarin, ser.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” He rubs his face, breathing in the chilly mountain air with its bright pine scent. The cabin is stifling, stinking of sweat and fear, and he needs to get out. “If anyone asks, I’m talking a walk.”

“Yes, ser.”

Sergeant Katarin stations herself by the door while he walks away. Maxwell keeps his head down to avoid attention and quietly eases past the village gates. He stops short at the sea of tents right outside Haven’s walls; more mages followed him back to Haven than the village could accommodate, forcing them to settle outside near the stables and smithy. Cassandra’s already complained about the former Circle mages making unreasonable demands about the situation but who could blame them? They never had to live with such hardships before the Circles revolted.

A few mages sit around low-burning fires, reading or chatting animatedly with each other. They appear to revel in their precarious situation.

Maxwell considers the empty smithy and then trudges up to it, a thought taking hold and blossoming in his mind. He’d been taught to fight since childhood and training sessions with the family’s guard captain became a reliable distractions on the days when expectations breathed down his neck. He clenches his hands, already aching for the feel of a greatsword’s grip.

He raids the smithy for a battered iron sword and walks out to the makeshift training ground. A few straw dummies still stand, limbs intact; he stops in front of the nearest one and hefts the sword, testing its weight. Its balance is excellent and he tells himself to commend Harritt later.

Maxwell recalls his trainer’s voice - Captain Carrine’s sharp reprimands whenever he took the wrong step, reminders to stay aware of his surroundings no matter the circumstances, terse commands to never use just his arms but also his whole body. He remembers what he learned while on the run in the Marches, when form and technique gave way to brutal survival. He thinks about the magic on his hand that ordained him Andraste’s herald and heretic, the demons spilling out of the tears in the Veil all throughout the Hinterlands, and his first near-fatal attempt to close the Breach. He thinks about a year-old future where the sky and the Breach are one and everyone he knows is dead or dying.

The horizon is pale when he finally cuts down the last dummy. His muscles burn and his lungs strain for air, and he feels free for once, clear-headed and unafraid. He goes to the frozen lake and kicks a hole through the ice, kneels to splash his face before gulping frigid handfuls. He watches wildlife slowly creep out of their shelters to forage and listens to Haven stir. He rises to his feet and returns to his cabin with the dull sword on his shoulder.

* * *

“Oh dear,” is the only warning anybody gets before Chancellor Roderick storms through the chantry doors, face red with fury. His eyes sweep the dim hall before finding the source of his ire.

“You!” he shouts, finger pointing at Maxwell. “You went and brought back the _rebel mages_? You offered an _alliance_ with their leader? I expected better from a Trevelyan. You should know better-”

Cassandra steps in front of Maxwell. “Enough, Roderick.”

“And you!” Roderick says, turning his shaking finger up at Cassandra’s stony face. “I expected better from _you_ , Seeker. You should’ve gone to Therinfal Redoubt and convinced the Lord Seeker that you needed the templars-”

“Seekers do not play favorites,” she replies coldly. “And Sister Leliana sent a messenger to Therinfal when we left for Redcliffe. She’ll have Lord Seeker Lucius’s response soon enough. And the Herald believed it to be more prudent to ask the former Grand Enchanter first, seeing as she came to us offering assistance instead of punching Mother Hevara in public.”

The chancellor flinches at the reminder. He glares at Maxwell over Cassandra’s shoulder and at Josephine and Cullen standing at the doorway to the diplomat’s shared office. “You realize what this could do to your Inquisition. How much harder it will be to be recognized by the Chantry. What do you say to this, knight-commander?”

The former templar grimaces. “That is not my title anymore. And what I or the Chantry have say doesn’t matter. The Herald believed the Breach to be a magical problem that needed a magical solution, and the Grand Enchanter invited him to Redcliffe to discuss one. The Lord Seeker… did not.”

“You’re harboring the mage that started the entire war, that forced the Divine’s hand and brought her here to her death-”

“Now you go too far, Roderick,” Leliana says softly, stepping out of the shadows and brushing black feathers off her shoulder. “Attitudes like yours made the war possible. _She_ was trying to change them at the Conclave. What the Herald did was what the Divine would have wanted.”

Chancellor Roderick finally backs away, shoulders slumping. “I’m not wrong. You know what they’re already saying. If you wanted legitimacy, this was not the way.”

“The templars broke with the Chantry and holed up in a fortress rather than try to solve the problem. We would have been fighting for it no matter what.”

The older man throws his hands in the air. “Fine. Do what you think is best. I’m only a chancellor, what can I possibly do?”

“Help the Inquisition, Roderick.” Mother Giselle appears in the hall and Maxwell wonders how long she’d been standing in the shadows, listening to his accusations. “The Chantry will not find answers for Divine Justinia’s death or why the Breach came to be. You know that as well as I.”

The chancellor sighs. “There hasn’t been an Inquisition for a thousand years.”

“The world did not need one,” Leliana says. “Now, we do.”

Still, Chancellor Roderick shakes his head. “You said the Divine gave you permission to form the Inquisition. I hope you know what you’re doing.” He looks at Maxwell suspiciously. “Many still suspect you as the cause of the explosion, Trevelyan, but if you can close it….”

“Come with me, Roderick,” Mother Giselle says, placing a hand at his elbow and steering him back out of the chantry. “There are still those who sympathize with the….”

Once the doors shut behind him with a resounding clang, Josephine lets out the breath she’d been holding.

“Well. That went better than I expected.”

Cullen snorts. “He just told us Fiona’s mages jeopardized our chances with the rest of the world. I wouldn’t say it was ‘better’.”

“They’ll be singing a different tune once they learn the mages helped close the Breach and did so voluntarily,” Leliana says. “Solas should be here soon to discuss the next step. Shall we?”

Solas joins them while she talks about the rumors her people overheard in the villages near Therinfal. The apostate brings with him a gust of mountain air and a lingering scent of elfroot; there’s something else, a prickling sensation, and Maxwell shivers, slides closer to Cassandra until the discomfort disappears. Solas quirks an eyebrow at him but says nothing.

“What do you have?” Cassandra asks and Solas begins by unrolling a hand-drawn map of the temple ruins on top of Josephine’s map of southern Thedas.

Maxwell feels himself list to the side while watching Solas draw lightly on his map with a charcoal stick. His eyes are uncomfortably dry but he can only rub at them so many times before they become swollen and red and noticeable. He stifles a yawn and that, unfortunately, catches Josephine’s attention.

“Are you all right?” she suddenly asks.

Everyone stares at him. He flushes. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look it,” she says, studying him with narrowed eyes. Unable to hold her gaze, he drops his eyes to Solas’s diagram and the larger map underneath. “Are you not sleeping well? Is your cabin not comfortable? I can request a-”

“No, it’s fine.” He glances quickly at the others and cringes at the exasperation on Solas’s face. “The cabin’s fine. I turned in late last night, that’s all.”

“‘That’s all’, he says,” Leliana snorts. “You’ve been spending the last four nights out on the training ground.”

“I like the dark,” he says. Of course she’d know. Did she have to mention it in front of everybody else? “Can we get back to this? I _know_ I’ll sleep better once I know the Breach can be closed.”

“I agree,” Cullen says. “What was it you were saying, Solas?”

“I said you must prepare for what comes after. Not the… state of your Chantry but the expectations once the Breach is gone. Closing it will not make the existing rifts disappear. The Herald must still find and seal them before one of the rifts opens and grows into a new Breach.”

“I see,” Cassandra says flatly.

Maxwell nods slowly, acknowledging, mouth pressed tightly. The mark thrums hotly in his hand, a heavy burning weight, and he curls his fingers around it like they can contain its magic.

“The… Enchanter Fiona and I need more time,” Solas continues. “The last thing we need is a miscalculation backfiring on us that could kill the Herald or-”

“How long?” Maxwell asks. How much longer can he carry the hopes of every person in his left hand? How much longer until he can stop wondering why he has this mark? Why Andraste chose him over even Divine Justinia?

Solas stares at him for an uncomfortably long moment. “Two weeks, perhaps. You were on your own the first time and the mark nearly killed you. I believe I speak for everyone here when I say I want to make sure you survive, so we will take the time to ensure it.”

He nods, then stifles another yawn. His right eye twitches but nobody notices, or pretends not to. “So, two weeks. Is there anything else?”

“I’m waiting on word from two of the sympathetic nobles I petitioned for aid,” Josephine says. “Hopefully, they haven’t changed their minds now that the mages are here.”

“I’ll inform you once I have a response from the Lord Seeker,” Leliana says. “Teyrn Fergus is sending us weapons and armor as thanks for our presence at the Divine’s Vigil.”

“No word from my men or Sister Dorcas yet. I hope this axe is worth the effort,” Cullen says. He suddenly hesitates, mouth pressing into a thin line while considering his next words. “Herald, there is something. You know many former templars joined the Inquisition. They’re… uneasy about the mages here. Fiona promised that she’ll keep her people in line but we should consider taking precautions in case someone tries to cross it.”

“Precautions?” Leliana asks. “They’re our allies, Cullen. You don’t imprison them just because of what they _might_ do.”

“That’s not what I mean-”

“Then what do you mean?” Maxwell asks. “Should I not have asked Fiona to help us?”

“No, that’s not it.” Cullen sighs. “Chancellor Roderick was right about their presence here. Not everyone in Haven is happy, Herald. You made your decision and I will defend it, but know that others feel differently. Show them you’re aware of their concerns, too.”

He stares at the former templar, fingers curled tightly, trembling with uncertainty, doubt. Did he make a mistake? Did he anger that many people with his decision to go to Redcliffe? Did he jeopardize the Inquisition before they even had the chance to close to the Breach and prove themselves?

“Perhaps you should assign your templars elsewhere, Commander,” Solas replies before the silence drags on for too long. “If they can’t tolerate the mages being here of their own free will, send them elsewhere to occupy their minds and time. That is always an option. If you’ll excuse me.”

He leaves the room. Once the doors shut, Cassandra turns to Cullen. “If anyone is questioning the Herald’s decision, send them to me. I'll not risk uncertainty and unrest destroying what we already achieved.”

“No, I - I should do it myself,” Cullen says. “I just thought the Herald should know what’s happening within the ranks.”

“I have an idea now,” Maxwell says a little too quickly. He clears his throat. “Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

Cullen nods. “I’ll take my leave. I have… matters to discuss with them.”

Maxwell doesn't relax until Cullen is gone. His shoulders sag and he bows his head, staring at the mark on his left hand. If only he could will it away.... He glances up when Cassandra leans on the table, peering at him with sharp eyes.

“You look exhausted.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? First the Breach and whatever happened at the Conclave _that I can’t remember_ , then Redcliffe, and now this… problem with the mages and templars here, the entire reason why we were here in the first place,” he says and the Seeker winces. “It’s been a very… trying several weeks, and I guess they’re finally catching up.”

Cassandra sighs, her guard slipping in a rare moment. “You’re right. What happened at Redcliffe-”

“Happened. I just need a few days to… clear my head.”

“None of us have been able to do that in a very long time,” Cassandra agrees.

“Especially you, Cassandra,” Leliana says. “You’re being too hard on yourself again.”

“I started this. It’s only right that I see this to the end.”

Josephine quietly organizes the missives and sketches and Maxwell takes it as his cue to leave. While easing the door shut, he hears the Divine’s Right Hand say, “There’s more - Charter said she’d been watching Therinfal for four days now and no one’s left or entered it in....”

Maxwell nearly collides with Vivienne on his way out of the chantry.

“I overheard your conversation with the chancellor. You should heed his warning,” she says while he steadies himself. “Do you think people will care that you took the mages and a Ferelden bann’s home from a Tevinter magister - are you well, dear? You look under the weather-”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he snaps. His face burns as she flinches and nearby sisters whip their heads around to stare. He quickly composes himself and says, “I apologize. That was unbecoming of me.”

She hums. “Apology accepted. We’ll have this discussion another time. Consider visiting the apothecary. I’m sure that Adan can concoct something to help you recover from whatever’s ailing you.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, my dear,” she says, sounding too much like certain relatives back home. “After all, we want the Herald to be at his best when he closes the Breach for good.”

* * *

Haven thrives on renewed hope despite the misgivings about the mage alliance. People greet the Herald with thanks and well-wishes wherever he goes; even the eternally irritable Adan pulls together a half-smile while offering him several flasks of a restorative concoction to use at night. Minaeve declares it a miracle and Adan scowls before grumbling about the mages raiding his meager stocks for their own needs.

The former Circle mages and former templars appear to come to an unspoken truce. Other than a few arguments, they keep to their camps, their halves of Haven, and greet each other tensely when crossing paths. It’s not so different from the weeks before the Conclave, Maxwell thinks, except the leaders are all dead and there’s a hole in the sky. Still, one can appreciate the effort to appear unified against a common threat. But what happens once the Breach is gone?

“You’re positioning them too far away,” Fiona says during a meeting between her, Solas, and Maxwell. She frowns at the marks Solas made with red chalk on his map of the temple grounds. “If you place them here and here, you’ll increase the odds of interference from these….”

Maxwell watches the two mages trade chalk pieces across the table. Next to Solas’s hand-drawn map is a larger map of Haven and the Temple of Sacred Ashes. A soldier had helpfully drawn in the size and scope of the explosion with ink, including a large black dot pinpointing the likely epicenter. He stares at the dot, wishing he can remember what part of the temple that was and why he went there.

“Maybe I should go,” he says when neither mage shows any sign of simplifying their arguments for him or even acknowledging his presence.

They stare at him and then the former Grand Enchanter turns back to the maps, tapping a finger on her chin.

“If anyone asks,” Solas says with a long-suffering sigh, “the enchanter and I will be at the valley to observe the red lyrium growths. From a distance, of course.”

Free of immediate responsibilities for once, Maxwell retreats to his cabin. He sits at the rickety wooden table and stares at the stack of letters Josephine handed him earlier this morning. With a sigh, he pushes them aside and fishes out an unfinished letter from under two dusty books he found while poking around the chantry. He unfolds the piece of paper and stares at his hesitant handwriting.

 

_They believe She saved me and I can’t deny them. They need to believe in something, even if it’s me._

_I wish you were here. I wish_

 

It’s a pointless exercise. He doesn’t know if Evelyn and the others are still near Ansburg or if they’ve gone even further north towards Antiva. No matter what Leliana claims, he doubts her messengers can find them in time and return with an answer. But who else can he write to? He looks at the letter at the top of the heap, no doubt intentionally placed there by Josephine to get his attention. He’s in no mood to read anything from his father, though, and turns his attention back to the his unfinished letter.

He should… he should tell Evelyn about their older brother. He should tell her that he found Edmund with the mages at Haven. She can draw her own conclusions as to whether or not one of Ostwick Circle's most promising enchanters survived the explosion.

What else would he tell them? The vicious fighting that tore up the Hinterlands? The wild beauty of the Storm Coast that felt oddly like home? The bright and deceivingly festive Summer Bazaar at Val Royeaux?

He could write about Redcliffe.

Maxwell goes outside and spends an hour asking the Iron Bull about Seheron and Krem about the Chargers.

Night finds him striding out to the training ground, sweat clinging to his forehead and heart pounding like he ran through endless corridors instead of dreaming about them. The dream fades rapidly but he still remembers the flooded prison cells and the red lyrium blooming from the corpses; one had the Iron Bull’s great horns and the other Sera’s mop of straw-colored hair. They weren’t the ones he and Dorian found and sprung free but they easily could’ve been. They could’ve been two of the many sent to Redcliffe in search of their missing Herald.

He stares at the jagged green line across his left palm and then clenches it tightly against the frigid cold. Cursing himself for forgetting his gloves, he tears off a strip from his shirt and winds it tightly around his hand; the mark glows faintly through the fabric but it’s easier to hide now, easier to put out of sight and mind. Maxwell then looks up at the row of straw dummies waiting in the clearing. Someone had been leaving them out after sunset - Cullen, probably - after Leliana mentioned the Herald’s nighttime activities.

The iron greatsword shreds the dummies and then splinters the poles propping them up. Each blow jars his arms, a welcome reminder that he’s not trapped in another dream. He moves faster, swings harder, wears himself down so that he won’t dream of red lyrium when he stumbles back to bed. He pulverizes the last pole and stares at the splinters and shards all over the ground, breathing hard, and wipes sweat off his brow.

“There _must_ be better things to do than hack a poor log to death at this dreadful hour.”

Maxwell turns sharply, greatsword held out in a defensive position, and the dull blade stops short of slashing Dorian’s chest open. The mage holds his hands up but faint green magic already coats his skin. After a second, Maxwell lowers the sword and Dorian banishes his barrier with a gesture. Leftover magic gathers into a wisp and it floats around the mage, glowing softly. Maxwell stares at it, remembering Evelyn complaining of her struggles to summon them.

Dorian looks at him curiously and then at the greatsword in his hand and the carnage in the snow behind him. “Come here often?”

Maxwell snorts at the casual tone. “Perhaps.”

He stabs the greatsword in the ground before turning to clean up the mess. The pile of splintered wood and straw bursts into flames before he can carry it to a nightwatch fire and he glances sharply at the mage.

“Sorry about that,” Dorian says brazenly. “Old habits die hard.”

“So I’ve heard,” Maxwell says. He’s spent far too much time around mages to flinch at the first burst of magic-fueled fire.

If anything, Dorian looks even more bemused by his lack of reaction. He doesn’t say anything, though; he watches Maxwell scuff snow onto the fire after it burns through the straw and then follows him down to the frozen lake, the wisp trailing after them. Maxwell glances over his shoulder at the mage, wondering why Dorian is awake this late at night.

Maxwell gives Dorian a few more seconds to speak, then breaks the ice with his heel and crouches down to splash water on his face. His face prickles and burns from the cold and his breath fogs as he soaks his sore hands.

“Can’t sleep?” Dorian finally asks.

He huffs and shakes water from his hands, wiping them on his trousers while rising to his feet. “What makes you say that?”

“The entire village has been for several hours, yet here you are.”

“I could say the same about you.”

When no response is forthcoming, he turns around. Dorian is looking at him strangely.

“Started after Redcliffe, didn’t it?”

He goes still, his chest twisting painfully at the name. Dorian sighs knowingly, tiredly, and now Maxwell sees the dark circles under the mage’s eyes, the stress lines creasing his face. He hasn’t been dealing well with what happened at Redcliffe Castle, either.

“I try not to let most things get to me. But what we went through, that future we saw, that’s not something anyone would recover from.” Dorian shakes his head, shoulders sagging. He looks nothing like the confident man Maxwell met at the Redcliffe chantry and followed through the castle’s broken halls. “What he did trying to save Felix, what he _sacrificed_... they always think they know what’s best and who pays the price? He would’ve let the world burn instead of accept the inevitable.”

There’s a slight tremble in Dorian’s voice and Maxwell wonders if he’s not just talking about his former mentor. Dorian made plain countless times how much he despises what Tevinter had become but something heavy and personal weighs down his words, like Alexius wasn’t the first to disappoint him.

“Can’t be easy seeing someone you looked up to fall so low,” Maxwell decides to say.

“You’d be surprised,” Dorian replies lightly, like he didn’t just give himself away a second ago. “It’s a habit of ours - one day you’re the talk of Minrathous and the Archon’s best friend, and the next day you’re shipping out to Seheron to spend your last days in the fog fighting Qunari. But one thing you can count is that we like to talk about our glorious past and how we can restore the Imperium to her former glory.” He sighs., then suddenly perks up “At least our mysterious enemy has no idea we know his plans so I'd call it a success. Wouldn’t you agree, Herald-”

“Maxwell,” he blurts out. “I’m not fond of that… title. Not this late at night. And it’s only fair, after Redcliffe.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now? ‘After Redcliffe’?” Dorian joins Maxwell at the edge of the frozen lake. He’s just a bit shorter but gives the impression of being much taller. “We’re the only ones who saw what happens to the world without you in it. I imagine that leads to a lot of sleepless nights.”

“They do,” Maxwell says before he can stop himself. It’s not really a secret though, is it? The nightwatch and a handful of people already know he tends to wander at night. “If I sleep, I’m at the castle except we never find Alexius and we die in the dungeons. Or I’m in Ostwick, the Breach is everywhere, and I can’t save my family. Everyone dies because I wasn’t there to stop the Elder One. Because they didn’t have _this_ on my hand….”

If only he didn’t go to the Conclave. If only he didn’t somehow survive it while every prominent leader perished. If only it wasn’t _him_. He looks down at the eerie green glow seeping out from under the strip of cloth. “If Solas and Fiona make a mistake, this could blow up in our faces and kill me.”

“Do you really trust that apostate? He looks and lives like something the cat dragged in, and claims he’s self-taught. Not my first choice for sealing that hole in the sky.”

“You weren’t there. He realized this mark was connected to the Veil and showed me how to close rifts and stop the Breach from growing. He saved my life, too,” Maxwell says. “So be nice. You want to be there when we close the Breach, right? You should talk to him about it, see if you can help.”

“What can I possibly gain from talking to someone like him?” Dorian grimaces. “That was rude of me. Didn't take long for me to come off like a rude evil magister in front of the Herald himself, did it?”

“But you're not a magister,” Maxwell says immediately, confused. Then, “Wait. Is that what people are saying?”

Dorian waves it off. “I’ve heard much worse on the road. And back home, if I think about it. Which I won’t. I have better things to do, like waste my time and talents trying to stay warm on this absolutely frigid blighted mountain. How do you stand the cold?”

“I run around a lot,” Maxwell says promptly and Dorian laughs, shattering the quiet. “It helps, I swear.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it.” Dorian flashes a smile, then tilts his head to the training ground uphill behind them. “So, you come out here when you can’t sleep and hit things that don’t hit back? Seems rather unproductive and boring.”

“I don’t exactly have a lot of options at this hour.” Dorian just looks at him and a bewildering second later, it clicks. “You… want to join me. As in, fight me.”

“I promise not to prick my dainty little finger to summon demons, if that’s your concern.” Dorian shifts uneasily like the cold is getting to him. “Nights like this are an excellent time for me to practice but the last time I did that, a bunch of your soldiers and the southern mages shouted me down, threatened to dispel my magic and worse. But say I’m offering to show the Herald how to defend himself against magisters and blood mages. Who’ll argue against that?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“On the contrary. Thanks to-” Dorian gestures in a direction that isn’t the Hinterlands. “-‘after Redcliffe’, neither of us can sleep. I’ve been trying to bore myself reading your Chantry’s history and all that came of it was an insatiable desire to set the books on fire, continue my blasphemous ways. Meanwhile you’re out here smashing up straw dummies and learning nothing. Why waste these hours? Mock fights are far more productive and entertaining.”

His idea is absurd but Maxwell can’t find a reason to turn him down. The fledgling Inquisition is in limbo while Solas and Fiona determine how to close the Breach without killing Maxwell or destroy the Veil, leaving him with too much time on his hands. He can always go a few rounds with Cassandra, Blackwall, or the Iron Bull, but a mage presents an interesting challenge and Dorian is offering to be that mage. His reasoning - excuse - isn’t illogical, either; he’d know how Tevinter-trained mages fight better than anyone here in the south and Maxwell could stand to learn how to battle the Venatori if they remain a threat afterward.

“This could blow up in our faces,” he says but he can’t stop grinning and neither can Dorian.

“Isn't that what makes living fun?” Dorian replies. “Here, tomorrow night?”

“Yes, that sounds perfect.”

Dorian bows with a flourish and leaves, the wisp trailing after him. Maxwell watches them disappear inside Haven, feeling a strange lightness in his chest, and then looks up at the swirling Breach.

For once, he doesn’t feel so afraid of it.

* * *

“You don’t use arrows. Why you making a bow if you don’t use arrows?”

Maxwell looks at the loops of rawhide in his hands, the unfinished longbow and the schematic on the worktable, and then at Sera. “Because I can? Because you use them?”

Her eyes narrow. “So what if I do?”

He grips the rawhide a little too tightly while walking around her to the table. He sets the material next to the longbow and skims the schematic. “I don’t know what’ll happen when I try to close the Breach. So this is… I don’t know how else to thank you. For wanting to help me.”

“I don’t-” She stops, blinking rapidly, and her forehead crinkles.

“If something goes wrong,” he adds, “you can stick the Breach full of arrows with this.”

She laughs nervously. “Don’t be stupid. You’re not messing up, not when we’re this far ahead. Yeah?” She leans on the table, studying the schematic and then the longbow. “Just ‘cause you have instructions doesn’t mean you get it right the first time. Or ever.”

“My brother is - _was_ a bowman in the Templar Order. Oswald didn’t trust the bowyers to make his bows right so he made his own. He showed me how but the bows we use are a bit… different. I still need instructions for these types of bows.”

“You know how to shoot.”

“All Trevelyans do,” he says. “We learn how to handle a bow since childhood, even on horseback.”

There’s a joke in there somewhere, he just knows it. But Sera just hums, tapping the table with restless fingers. “Prove it.”

“Prove what?”

She points to the archery range on the training ground and the row of targets painted on stacks of hay. “You, me, arrows. Whoever misses most pays for drinks.”

“What, me against you? That’s not fair.”

“We’ll just grab someone else to help you out. You beat them, they pay for everything. But not Varric. He doesn’t miss.”

“I don’t think he ever does,” Maxwell says. He considers turning her down but he sees the glint in her eyes and something swells at the back of his throat. “All right. Let’s go.”

It takes two minutes to know who’ll win but they still test each other for thirty minutes more. A crowd slowly gathers, curious eyes watching a self-taught elven archer easily outshoot the Herald. His attention starts pulling away from the bow and arrow in his hand, his stance, his posture, the target fifty-five paces away. They’re all watching him, staring at the glowing mark on his hand as he draws the arrow back.

He misses the hay bale entirely and hands the bow back to the soldier he borrowed it from. “I’m out.”

“What, that’s it? Just like that?”

He holds his hands up. “I know when I’m beaten.”

She huffs. “Fine,” she says, dragging the word out like a petulant child. “You, me, the Singing Maiden tonight, or else bees.”

Maxwell grimaces. Sera had found, in her own secretive fashion, that someone was peddling tossable jars of angry bees for perplexing reasons and insisted the Inquisition bring him in. No one took her seriously until she threw a jar at lyrium smugglers in the Hinterlands. The cloud of bees swarming the smugglers and scattering them into the woods made quite the spectacle, and then the swarm turned on them.

She still totes a jar whenever they leave Haven, no matter how Vivienne glowers at her over the incident.

“Gave my word, didn’t I?” he says. He has a pouch of sovereigns and silvers from Josephine’s latest attempt to fill the Inquisition’s meager coffers, which should more than cover the pints Sera intends to put away. “I’ll be there.”

Their audience slowly disperse, especially with Cullen wading in to send the soldiers back to their posts and tasks. Blackwall reluctantly hands the Iron Bull some coin, having clearly and miserably lost a bet. What convinced the Warden that Maxwell ever stood a chance? He’s still grateful for the gesture and returns to the smithy with a smile. It stays on his face while he finishes crafting the longbow and tests it at the range.

“That’s a well-made bow,” Cullen remarks after Maxwell fires an arrow at a surviving hay bale from sixty paces.

“Thank you. I never made one on my own before.” Maxwell glances up at the sky, gaze sweeping past the swirling Breach to the slowly sinking sun. “Should go pay for Sera’s ale before she tips a jar of bees into my cabin.”

“Maker. Do I even want to know?”

He recalls running for his life through Hafter’s Woods, ears filled with furious buzzing and Blackwall’s panicked cursing. “You really don’t.”

* * *

Hungover and shivering is not how he wants to meet Dorian. Details fade the longer he’s awake, fumbling in the dark for clothes that aren’t soaked in sweat, but horror still clings to him. The demons didn’t drag in Cassandra and Varric’s bodies when they came for him and Dorian; they threw Hildred and Oswald’s mutilated corpses at his feet and laughed. Evelyn’s head rolled along the floor and came to a stop at the bottom of the steps, red lyrium bursting from her eyes.

 _“You’re too late,”_ she whispered. _“The Elder One has come for you.”_

He woke right when the demons severed his left hand from his wrist. He stared at the ceiling for too long, heart pounding and eyes wet with tears.

“I hate this,” he hisses while pulling a belt tightly around his brocaded sash and waist. He grabs the dinged greatsword from its resting place against the wall and stalks outside into the night.

Dorian is pacing around the training ground when he steps through Haven’s gates. The mage is a sight in the light of the twin moons, breath fogging around his head as he tracks looping circles through the light dusting of snow. Maxwell watches for a moment longer before pulling the gates shut with a violent tug. Dorian starts and turns to him, looking at once annoyed and relieved.

“Oh good, you’re finally here,” Dorian says as he approaches. “For a second I thought I might have to come banging on your door, see if you weren’t still sleeping off that disgusting swill Sera kept plying you with. How does someone so small put away so - are you all right?”

“... what?” Maxwell asks, and then flinches when Dorian steps right into his space to look him over with a critical eye. “It’s nothing. I really shouldn’t have had that much.”

“Isn’t that what we all say.” Dorian pulls a tiny vial from a satchel tied to his belt. “This’ll help with the headache.”

“I’ve heard that before. You sure?”

“I made it myself. Never know when you have to fight off nosy highwaymen after a night of heavy drinking.” Dorian then gestures at the training ground. “If we want to do this, perhaps we should go somewhere else. I’d hate waking up the village trying to set you on fire.”

Maxwell uncaps the vial and swallows its contents, grimacing at the bitter grassy taste. The dull pounding in his head fades and he runs his tongue over his teeth while pocketing the ampoule. “You’re not actually going to set me on fire, are you?”

“Wouldn’t be a challenge if I didn’t try,” Dorian replies smartly. “I’ll cast a barrier first, don’t worry. Why don’t we go over there?”

He points his staff at the cluster of trees and snowy hills beyond the soldiers’ tents and the nightwatch fires. Maxwell has been there before, tripping over elfroot in the glistening snow and startling rams into bolting up the mountainside. There’s plenty of space and not enough buildings to accidentally set aflame or bring down.

“Why not,” he says, sets his sword on his shoulder, and follows Dorian to the edge of Haven.

Soldiers walk the outskirts and they stop in their tracks to either salute him or ask bewildered questions. One of them is Sergeant Katarin, who simply nods and directs her patrol elsewhere.

“We won’t be far, Herald,” she tells him. “Just shout if you’re in trouble.”

“I’ll keep him safe,” Dorian says over his shoulder, some five paces ahead. “Though really, the only real danger out here is the footing. If the boots that officer was offering weren’t so unsightly and of improper fit, I would’ve taken them….”

Katarin raises a sharp eyebrow and Maxwell quickly says, “We’ll only be gone for a few hours. If a tree catches fire, don’t raise the alarm yet. It’s probably just us.”

She nods slowly. “Yes, ser. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He returns her salute while leaving and almost slips in the muddy slush, catches himself and runs after Dorian. They pass by an abandoned cabin, a logging stand, and too many trees until they reach a wide clearing covered in deep snow and druffalo tracks. Dorian walks around, getting a feel for the footing, and then declares, “This’ll do.”

Maxwell slides the greatsword off his shoulder and gives it a few experimental swings, reacquainting himself with its weight and balance. “So how should we start?”

“Without warning, if we’re serious,” the mage says, walking in a large circle around him. The staff’s head glows faintly and Maxwell watches it, remembering what his templar sister told him about fighting apostates. “To first blood or until someone keels over?”

“No blood, if possible.”

Dorian sweeps his staff over the ground and a warm green barrier wraps around them. The gesture is the only warning Maxwell gets; with another sweep, Dorian litters the ground with glyphs and sends a bolt of energy at Maxwell’s feet. He leaps to the side and almost loses his footing trying to dodge another blast. Hildred scolds him from memory.

 _“If you can’t catch a mage off-guard or dispel her magic, then charge her. Distance is her advantage. Always move and always move_ closer _.”_

He twists away from a bright salvo of energy and looks for a path between the fire mines. Another barrage comes at him and he runs through it in a crooked line; the bolts land all around him, tossing up mud and snow, crackling with energy. He falters once when hit in the shoulder and back, but the barrier shrugs off the damage and he keeps moving, eyes on both the glyphs and Dorian.

Like Evelyn, Dorian seems to favor the more destructive spells but he shows a flair that she and other southern mages lack; he casts confidently, boldly, spinning out a storm of magic with ease and utter delight. Are all the Tevinter-trained mages like this, or is it just him? 

The differences are so striking that Maxwell keeps changing tactics on the fly, adapting his sister’s knowledge to combat those who were never afraid of their gifts. He runs himself ragged trying to keep pace and find an advantage, and slips while dodging a bright purplish lightning bolt. His foot slides across the line of a fire mine and it explodes; heat licks at the barrier and he shields his face while quickly backing away from the flames.

“Come now, Maxwell!” Dorian calls out. “I know you’re better than that.”

“Just warming up!” he says and means it, exhaling harshly and swinging his greatsword while shifting stance and strategy.

“Such bravado. I hope it’s not all talk.”

Maxwell bolsters himself with a deep breath and then charges. Dorian immediately brings up a wall of flame to deter him; he angles away and around it without slowing down, watching his footing so as to not trigger another glyph. The barrier is fading and he grimaces at the sudden intense heat on his right, quickens his pace to get around it and barrels right into Dorian before the mage can react.

He rubs snow out of his eyes and waits for the world to stop spinning, then picks himself up. The collision had thrown them off their feet but not far away enough from each other; he lunges for his sword while Dorian scrambles for his stave. A new barrier ripples around Maxwell as he launches himself at the mage, closing the distance as Hildred instructed. He interrupts Dorian’s next spell but loses his upper hand when Dorian twists out of the way at the last second and trips him with the staff blade.

“Try to keep up,” Dorian says, breathless and laughing.

“If you insist,” Maxwell replies and kicks at Dorian’s knee, sending the mage tumbling into the snow. He gets to his feet and gives Dorian the smallest of courtesies by waiting until the mage is standing to attack.

He recognizes the motions and closes with a rush as the air crackles with lightning, forcing Dorian to stop his spell and block the swinging greatsword. Maxwell disengages and swings again, stopping another spell from forming. Hildred’s advice clings to his every move as they fall into an intense rhythm. Without space to cast and distance to allow the spell to gather strength, Dorian can’t use his magic at will but he still holds his ground, fending off Maxwell’s every advance with his staff.

“You look surprised,” Dorian says. He sneaks in a quick pulse of energy that pushes Maxwell back a step.

“Was told mages keep their distance for a reason.” He makes up the lost ground before Dorian presses the advantage, forcing the mage to stay on the defensive. He breathes deeply and readies for another assault. “Guess they were wrong about one.”

“I’m flattered.” Dorian sways, tiring, but still manages a gracious bow. “And now for my next trick-”

He swings the staff blade up at Maxwell’s face. Maxwell blocks it but the sudden momentum knocks him off-balance and he stumbles back. It’s all the space Dorian needs; he presses his fingertips to his temple and summons a tremendous explosion of telekinetic energy.

The trees at the edge of the clearing sway, dumping snow and startling sleeping birds into flight.

Maxwell stares up at the swirling Breach, breath steaming into a cloud above him, ears ringing from impact. Damp cold starts seeping into his clothes and he slowly gets up with a low groan. Dorian sits some distance away in the middle of a small crater, muttering under his breath. He falls silent while Maxwell brushes off snow and looks around at the damage.

“You were right,” Dorian eventually says. “Running around does help. I don’t think I’ll ever be cold again.”

Maxwell laughs until his sides hurt.

* * *

He’s limping when he reaches his cabin, though the small vials Dorian keeps on his person helped with the aches and bruises. Maxwell drops the sword and clumsily sheds his clothes before collapsing in his unmade bed.

If he dreams, he doesn’t remember.

* * *

“Why you so bloody _cheerful_ ,” Sera moans when he sits down at her table in the Singing Maiden and places the longbow in front of her. She clutches at her mop of straw-colored hair before burrowing her face in the crook of her arm, not seeing what’s in front of her.

“If you ask nicely, I’m sure Adan can make you something for your headache,” Maxwell says.

She groans at the suggestion. “No thanks. More ale.”

“Drinking isn’t going to make it go away.”

“Don’t care.”

Flissa hovers nearby, glancing between them with a raised eyebrow. He shakes his head and she walks away to clear a table of three empty pints; he wonders who started drinking this early in the morning. Sera lifts her head and props it on her left hand, staring at him grumpily.

“What d’you do? I mean, I know where to put it. I can hold my drink. Didn’t look like you did.”

He shrugs, trying not to remember the taste of Dorian’s bitter concoction, and regrets it when he pulls a sore muscle. “Like I said, go ask Adan. Nicely.”

“Ugh.” Her large eyes finally notice the longbow. “You made it.”

“Tested it, too. Light and strong. You’ll like it.”

“Sure,” she says warily but she doesn’t sound so abrasive or incredulous now. She looks bemused by the gift and he wonders if he was too forward.

“Suppose I should thank you,” Sera slowly says, touching the padded grip. “Not like I lost _all_ of my manners.” In a lower voice, “Piss off, Vivvy.”

“You’re welcome,” Maxwell says, relieved. “Anyway, if you won’t see Adan, maybe ask Flissa to make elfroot tea. Oswald always swore by it.”

Sera makes a disgusted noise and buries her face in the crook of her arm again.

* * *

“And the shields?” Maxwell asks, glancing at the Warden loitering near the smithy’s shed.

“Almost ready,” Harritt says. “Though with that Blackwall snooping around, it’s getting difficult finishing them without him noticing. But I’ll have them ready in a day or two.”

“Thank you.” He turns to leave, thinking idly of the makeshift pens holding Dennet’s horses and the apples in his pockets.

“Suppose you can tell us exactly _when_ you and the mages are getting rid of that,” Harritt suddenly says.

He looks up at the Breach swirling lazily high above the blackened ruins. The longer he stares, the more clearly he remembers a sky storming green, tearing Thedas apart and dragging the pieces into the sky.

“Herald?”

He blinks and the sky is wintry blue at the edge of the Breach. He slowly unclenches his hands and says, “It’ll be gone before the week is over.”

He quickly walks away before Harritt can ask more questions because he doesn’t have the answers. Solas does and that’s what he told Maxwell, Cassandra, Leliana, and the others at the meeting this morning. The former Grand Enchanter held a similar meeting with her mages, informing them of the tentative strategy she and Solas are putting together and asking for input. Fiona hasn’t returned to the chantry, though, and he considers visiting her camp to ask.

Instead, he goes to Blackwall to lure the Warden away from the smithy and give Harritt some peace of mind.

“Can I ask you something?”

Blackwall gives him a look. “Exactly how many questions do you have about the Wardens?”

He stares at the ground, cheeks reddening. “Many?”

The Warden huffs and sits back on his heels. “Most people don’t care once the Blight’s over. Ten years and they’ve forgotten about us already.”

“How did you know it was the Blight?”

The Free Marches were left in the dark when Ferelden closed its borders during the civil war but rumors were abound that a terrible sickness was spreading, a plague upon the land. He was just a child then but heard the whispers, saw the refugees at the port and in the chantry with horror in their eyes and stories on their lips. They all said it was darkspawn, it was the Blight, no matter what their regent said.

“We Wardens just know these things,” Blackwall says. “You have to join to learn how we read the signs. How we know if it’s not just pockets of darkspawn wandering up from the Deep Roads.”

“Why not tell everyone how to watch for them?”

Blackwall huffs. “Because we go a hundred years between Blights and people forget. They always forget. But Wardens are vigilant, always watching for the signs of another Blight, another Archdemon rising. Doesn’t make us popular, but without us most everyone would be dead.”

“Is that how you go around recruiting people?” He remembers Blackwall telling the villagers to return to their families at the Crossroads, not that they were sorry to go. “You tell them nothing goes on between Blights and most people won’t believe you until the darkspawn are marching into their cities with the Archdemon at the head?”

“You’ve been reading too many stories,” Blackwall says - which is true, Maxwell did read every book about the Blight in the Ostwick chantry’s library. “But yes. The life of a Warden isn’t all glory, honor, and noble deeds. Anyone who takes their vows believing that are only fooling themselves.” He suddenly clears his throat and Maxwell glances at him sharply. “Been meaning to say this but your footwork needs… work.”

“My what?”

“Saw you training with Bull yesterday. Always good to know how to fight with whatever you have but you could use a _lot_ of practice with bucklers and shields. Come on.” Blackwall starts walking to the training ground. “Learned some things from a chevalier when I was younger….”

* * *

“Ah, there you are.”

Maxwell starts, yanking Haven’s gates shut with a loud clang. “Dorian?”

“Who else would be standing here at this blighted hour freezing their bits off while hoping the Herald-”

“It’s Maxwell, remember?”

“Hoping that _you_ might turn up?” Dorian paces back and forth on the training ground. “Interested in another fight?”

Someone left a row of dummies for Maxwell’s use but he’s now more interested in the mage swinging his staff about, uncaring of the alarmed looks the passing patrols give him. “I am.”

Dorian smiles and turns dramatically on his heels. “Off we go.”

The nightwatch looks on curiously as they walk to Haven’s outskirts. When Maxwell isn’t paying attention to where his feet sink into the snow, he’s looking at Dorian and wondering what to make of the mage waiting outside hoping he might show up. 

“You’re staring. Something on my face?”

“Besides your mustache?” He hesitates. “Bad night?”

Dorian shrugs. “I couldn’t sleep. You?”

He doesn’t remember what woke him but he did so with a pounding heart, curled tightly with his back against the cabin wall. “I tried.”

A fresh layer of snow covers the clearing, hiding druffalo tracks and the damage from four nights ago. He wonders where the animals sleep at night and if there’s a chance a miscast spell will rouse them into a stampede through Haven.

Dorian strides halfway across the field and turns around, staff on his shoulder. “This looks like a good place to start, or shall I move closer to make things easier for you?”

Maxwell huffs and takes a few practice swings. “Just don’t strain yourself.”

Dorian laughs and casts a barrier around them. His next gesture is a forward jab guiding a bright bolt of light but Maxwell is already sprinting in a crooked line toward the mage.

The fight is intense and explosive. Dorian pelts him with fire and lightning and the occasional wall of ice to keep him at bay, forcing him to weave around the clearing. Every time he gets close, Dorian sends out a wave of telekinetic energy to thwart him; tonight, he also uses his magic to whisk across the clearing and force Maxwell to give chase. Dorian pulls that trick again and again but after the fifth time he slides across the field in the blink of an eye, he stops to open a small vial of lyrium.

“I’d say that’s cheating,” Maxwell calls out while picking himself up from the snow. He dusts off his trousers and adjusts his grip on the heavy greatsword, steeling himself for another attack. “But I guess that’s the only way you’ll have a chance of beating me tonight.”

“Hilarious. Don’t forget who won last time.” Dorian tosses the vial over his shoulder and casually casts another barrier around them. He follows that with a fireball.

It becomes clear in a few minutes that Dorian is still feeling the effects of their fight three nights ago. Maxwell keeps slipping past his defenses and each time Dorian just barely manages to push him back. When Maxwell comes at him a sixth time, he’s too slow with his explosion of energy and instead blocks Maxwell’s sword with his staff blade. Now that they’re toe-to-toe, Maxwell presses his advantage as a trained swordsman while Dorian stubbornly holds his ground with the help of his magic. Maxwell catches on when he nearly slips on a patch of ice that wasn’t there a second ago.

The match ends when Maxwell feints left and creates an opening for Dorian to spellcast; just as he raises his hand to force out another telekinetic burst, Maxwell turns right and barrels right into the mage’s side, knocking them both into the snow.

“I’ll have to watch out for that,” Dorian declares while sitting up and brushing snow off himself. He looks exhausted, hair pushed in every direction and body steaming from exertion, but he’s smiling widely, eyes overly bright in the moonlight. “Next time someone charges me like a druffalo, I’ll just step through them, scare them stiff. Literally.”

“I’ve seen my sister do that. It’s… disturbing.”

“Your sister? She’s a mage?”

Maxwell nods, sinking hot aching hands in the snow. “She lived in the Ostwick Circle. Now she’s somewhere north in the Marches, hiding from the war.” He looks skyward. “She’s the reason why I went to Redcliffe.”

“From what I understand, your Chantry thinks we’ll turn to blood magic and demonic possession in the blink of an eye and that's why we should all be locked up in these Circles of yours. Wasn't fully convinced of that until after I came south."

"' _Magic exists to serve man, and never rule over him_ '," Maxwell says. "' _Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world or beyond._ ' They use that to justify it but I like to think most mages don't want to hurt people. They just want to be like us."

Dorian looks at him strangely. "Not an opinion I expected. You're really not afraid of us."

"Evie looked out for me, protected me. That's how her magic appeared. So why should I be?"

He’s the reason why she went to the Circle. She never blamed him, though and kept in touch through letters and supervised visits that her Circle’s First Enchanter Rhona allowed after her Harrowing, determined not to lose him. She was the reason why he left home after her Circle was violently annulled, and the reason why he went to the Conclave. She was the reason why he acted on the Grand Enchanter’s invitation rather than chase the Lord Seeker and the templars to Therinfal Redoubt.

He looks at his gloved palm and the faint green line cutting through the leather. “She’s the reason why I’m here.”

He scrubs at his damp hair and decides he’s been sitting in the cold long enough. He slowly gets to his feet and kicks at the snow, looking for his greatsword.

“While you’re at it,” Dorian suddenly says, “I don’t suppose you can find my staff as well? I can’t feel my legs on account of how _cold_ everything is.”

* * *

“Herald?”

Maxwell glances at the courier hovering at his right elbow. “What is it?”

“A message from Lady Josephine. She requests your presence at her office.”

“Is it urgent?”

“She didn’t say,” the courier says, “but she sounded impatient.”

He nods and drags his eyes away from the small stack of battered books on Seggrit’s table. “Tell her I’ll be there later today… or I’ll see her right now. Thank you.”

“Herald.” The courier bows and runs off, probably to report to Leliana for her next assignment.

“If you like,” Seggrit says, “I can hold these books until you return. Tell the truth, I wasn’t sure anyone would care for some light reading while that’s-” He nods at the Breach. “-going on, but if you’re interested-”

“I’d like that. Yes, thank you.”

Josephine is at her desk, reading a letter with a frown, when he enters her office. She glances at him and then at Minaeve, who bids Maxwell a good day and steps outside to give them privacy. Josephine adds the letter to the impressive stack on her desk and smiles warmly at him.

“Herald,” she says. “I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything.”

“I was just browsing Seggrit's table. And waiting for Solas and Fiona to tell me they know how to close the Breach without me dying or blowing it up instead. You said you needed me?”

“I do.” She extracts a letter from another stack but doesn’t open it. “I have a contact in Ostwick named Lady Buttlefort. You may have met her… well, as soon as we declared ourselves, I reached out to her. It appears that your relatives are using your name for themselves. In her last letter, she wrote that a distant cousin of yours threatened to have the Inquisition fight a rival on his behalf.”

He knows _exactly_ which distant cousin would try that. He just doesn’t know why this is his concern. “I’m… not sure what the problem is, exactly. It’s not like I’m actually going to send Inquisition soldiers there because he asked for them.”

Josephine stares at him for an uncomfortably long moment and he starts shifting from foot to foot, worried he just gave something away. Then her eyes widen. “Oh. Forgive me. Let me explain - the Inquisition needs all the support it can get, which has been difficult since the Chantry denounced us and we allied with Enchanter Fiona. But if we’re to court noble families and ruling powers, we need an exceptional reputation. If your family misrepresents us for… personal gain, they’ll tarnish our name. You can imagine what sort of reception we can expect to receive as a result, if anyone bothers to see us. That makes more sense, I hope?”

He slowly nods. This reeks of the Game, something he has only observed from the periphery. His oldest sister knows how to navigate the treacherous waters; him, not so much.

Thank the Maker that Leliana brought Josephine to Haven.

“I… imagine Leliana and Cullen had something to say about it?”

Josephine actually rolls her eyes at the spymaster’s name. “She suggested using a _rumor_ of assassins to encourage your cousin - and your family - to stop. I’ve no doubt they’ll disapprove of the tactic but it’ll certainly dissuade them. You can imagine what the commander’s advice was.”

“Be as tactless as possible.”

“An indelicate way to handle the situation, though it would resolve the matter much more quickly.” She leans forward, businesslike, eyes too keen for even a diplomat. “I would promise them favors in exchange for their… humility.”

“Favors?”

“Little things. Nothing of consequence, but substantial enough for _them_ that they’ll stop using us as a shield and a threat. Eventually they’ll all be in your debt. But you know your family best. What would you recommend?”

What can he possibly do to stop them from talking? Years of his father complaining that none of his children would take up the cloth has culminated in his youngest child being blessed by Andraste Herself - if the stories were true. They’ll never stop talking. He tries to think as his sister would but his mind draws a blank.

“I’m the youngest in my family. I wasn’t taught how to… take advantage of these situations,” he finally, awkwardly says.

“Do you want to solve the problem immediately, scare them into silence and possibly earn their ire, or play a longer game? However you decide, I will help as you as best as I can.”

“I’m glad Leliana reached out to you,” Maxwell says, earning a pleased smile from her. “I think… I think we’ll go with your suggestion. It’s my family and they’ll never shut up anyway. Why don’t we make the most of it? But if this cousin is who I think it is….”

Josephine opens the letter and skims it. “Is his name Cerdic Fulbert Oswin-”

Of course it’s him. “Send _him_ the rumor of assassins. He always needs someone to put the fear of the Maker in him.”

She laughs and then hastily smothers it. “Careful, Herald. We don’t want word getting out that you are using the Inquisition for your own gain.”

“Then we’ll just have to keep it between you and me. And Leliana, since she suggested it first. Is there anything else?”

“I have these.” She slides over an intimidating stack of letters. “Requests from all over Ferelden and eastern Orlais for help. They know you’ve been closing whatever rifts you found while traveling and want you to know that demons still remain.”

He stares at them, his heart sinking. How many pleas are there? “They want me to deal with those demons.”

“Not you personally, though I’m sure some of them are hoping to be graced by the Herald himself. Cullen thought we should send our soldiers to assist but I believe the Inquisition shouldn’t handle everything.”

“Why not?” he asks.

“We exist to deal with the Breach, end the war between the mages and templars, and restore order to the Chantry. It’s not our responsibility to also worry over every little problem that can be addressed by the local nobility, and it would not reflect well on us if we overstep our authority, especially when we’re so young and of precarious standing.”

“Okay,” Maxwell says. “Then you’ll ask the nobles to help?”

“Yes.” Satisfied that the minor matter is resolved, she searches her desk for a sheet of paper and opens her inkwell. She then pauses and looks up at him. “Before I forget - are you sleeping well?”

He cocks his head. “I’m sorry?”

“At our last meeting, you… didn’t look well and I was worried the cabin assigned to you was perhaps too drafty or lacking in some fashion. You’re looking much better now, though, so maybe I shouldn’t have asked.” Her cheeks darken. “Thank you for your time, Herald.”

He bows and steps out of the office, and nearly collides with Leliana. She glances at him and then at Josephine with narrowed eyes. “Did you-”

“No assassins,” Josephine says firmly. “Except for the cousin Buttlefort mentioned. What was it you said? ‘Put the fear of the Maker in him’?”

He briefly considers taking it back. Leliana has a long and storied, if shady, reputation in the Chantry, and after spending weeks around her, he knows she’ll instruct her people to do it. He really shouldn’t resort to such tactics since it’s his family but.... “Be creative.”

Leliana laughs. “Oh I like you, Herald.”

* * *

The book he buys from Seggrit is _Ferelden: Folklore and History_ by Sister Petrine. He read it many, many times before as the lonely child in a large estate; that copy is still in the family library, the corners folded to mark his progress and the margins stained wherever he accidentally spilled food or drink on the pages.

Rereading the familiar words is comforting and lulls him into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Maxwell looks up when Varric sits down at the table across from him and then returns to his book. Flissa comes by with a frothy pint and Varric passes her a silver, then sits back and drinks while listening to the bard Maryden sing and the people around them gossip.

“ _Ferelden: Folklore and History_ ,” Varric reads. “Huh. You read that for fun?”

“I like knowing things,” Maxwell replies and turns the page.

Time passes. The Singing Maiden slowly fills as people come in for late afternoon drinks and Maryden ends up leading half the tavern in a rousing rendition of “Andraste’s Marbari”, a song he would _never_ hear at the inns at the Ostwick docks. Maxwell continues reading and Varric continues drinking until evening sets in. Flissa offers them supper and Maxwell eats through several apples while Varric helps himself to the rest of Maxwell’s meal.

Eventually, evening deepens into night and people slowly wander back out to their cabins and tents.

“So,” Varric finally says, pulling Maxwell’s attention away from the pages on Highever, home of Ferelden’s heroic queen. “Seeker came to me the other day, asking about you.”

“Really? Why?”

“Said you weren’t coming around to talk with her. I told her to go bother you about it but that got me thinking. You used to bother me a lot, too. Always asking about _Hard In Hightown_ , Kirkwall, Hawke. Did you finally run out of questions to ask, or is there something else going on?”

Maxwell slowly shuts the book. He hoped - foolishly, he now realizes - that Varric wouldn’t notice or think it odd enough to come ask him about it. A few questions still bounce around in his head but every time he thinks about finding Varric, he remembers red lyrium in the dwarf’s voice and eyes. 

“Don’t break the book,” Varric suddenly says and he looks down at his hands gripping the old book a little too tightly. “What is it? Was it something I said?”

He shakes his head. “If you’ve been wondering, then you know when I… stopped coming around.”

Varric answers immediately. “After we came back from the Hinterlands. After we left Redcliffe.” He drinks and wipes off the foam. “Thought about it but nothing weird happened. Well, nothing besides that magister trying to use time magic-”

“He did. Use time magic.”

“What are you talking about? That amulet did nothing.”

“It did.”

Varric frowns. “Wait a minute. Are you saying-”

“Yeah.” His mouth is dry. He wishes he had a stiff drink in hand. “Cassandra knows. She and Leliana thought it’ll be best if nobody else knew. Everything about me is crazy enough as it is, but going from being saved by Andraste Herself to traveling into the future is….”

“Certifiably nuts. You’re joking. I was standing _right there_. Nothing happened.”

“Fiona had no idea she went to Val Royeaux to find me,” Maxwell says. “She told me later that she would’ve gone if Alexius hadn’t show up. That’s how it works. Do it right and you won’t remember anything you did before. That’s why they told me to keep it quiet.”

“What, you think I’ll just start telling everyone I meet? Do you know who I am, serah?”

“I do, and that’s not it. It’s.” He presses his mouth tightly, wondering how to tell Varric. How to explain something that only one other person knows is true. “Varric, Alexius sent me and Dorian into the future and I saw you die. I saw Cassandra die. I saw Leliana… and the others, the Inquisition, it died trying to break into Redcliffe Castle to find us. The Elder One that Alexius spoke of? He conquered Thedas with a demon army. Orlais couldn’t fight back because Empress Celene was assassinated and the civil war fell apart. And the Breach… it was the whole sky and it was tearing the world apart.”

Varric stares at him. “Maker’s breath.”

“Yeah.”

“So those are the stakes?”

“Yeah.” He laughs shakily. “Those are the stakes.” He hears, suddenly, the eerie chime of red lyrium, and shivers while looking elsewhere. “Every time I look at you, all I remember is you dying and it was just… easier going somewhere else.”

“Can’t blame you for that. Wish you said something but… Andraste’s flaming hair.” Varric shakes his head. “Time magic, huh? I’ve read some bad serials about some intrepid explorer stumbling into the past and discovering shit like Arlathan in all its elvhen glory. The real thing sounds a whole lot uglier.”

“It was something. It was awful.”

“Of course it was. I died in it.” Varric drains his pint. “All this talk about how the world ends makes me wish this was the Hanged Man, though this is much better than the shit they serve there.”

“Didn’t you say it tastes like rat piss?” Maxwell asks, smiling wryly.

“Half of Kirkwall thought so, not that it kept them away.” Varric’s eyes sweep around the tavern. “What I’d give for a pint of it and a game of Wicked Grace.”

“My brother tried to teach me,” Maxwell says. “Oswald was never very good at explaining things, though. That and he kept cheating.”

“I’ll have to show you how to play properly. Remind me later, will you?”

They talk for twenty minutes more, until they both start yawning and Maxwell reads the passage on Highever’s marbari kennels four times without remembering a single word of it He bids Varric, Flissa, and a sleepy Sera a good night and leaves the Singing Maiden with the book tucked under his arm. He takes the path across the village square and sees Cassandra talking with the quartermaster. He hesitates, wondering if he should keep walking, and decides instead to wait.

Threnn sees him immediately. She says something to the Seeker and walks away. Cassandra watches the Ferelden go down the steps to the tents and then strides over to Maxwell.

“Herald,” she says. The word swirls in the air like silver fog. “If you’re here to apologize, it’s not necessary.” She notices his bemusement. “I saw Varric going inside. I assume he told you.”

“He did. Cassandra, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ignore you or-”

“I just said you didn’t have to,” she says wryly. “Later, I remembered your report about the future. What you saw, what you endured… it is difficult to put such things behind.”

“It was,” he admits. He remembers the strange eerie aura, the flicker of red in her eyes, the song in her voice. He remembers her praying in a prison cell, surrounded by red lyrium growth. “But it’s no excuse.”

“You’re young. It’s understandable. But… thank you, for taking the time.”

Strange, he thinks while walking away, how much lighter his shoulders feel.

* * *

“Maker’s breath, _what is that_?”

Maxwell follows Cullen’s horrified gaze to the… thing two soldiers are escorting on long lead ropes to Dennet’s pens. Other soldiers stop their exercises to stare. So do nearby mages, villagers, and refugees. Someone starts murmuring prayers to the Maker.

“Is that a dead horse?” Cassandra asks incredulously.

It certainly looks like one, a gaunt black-skinned beast with a skull for a head and a stringy reddish mane and tail. Someone had thrust a rusty longsword through its skull from under its jaw and the blade sticks out of its forehead like a horn.

Maxwell hopes it doesn’t reek of rot.

A soldier approaches him hesitantly. “Ah, Herald? Ser? A gift from the, uh, Collective that you had us bring back. They call it the, uh, Bog Unicorn.”

“The Collective thought this an appropriate gift for the Inquisition?” Cullen asks disbelievingly. His hand tightens on his sword hilt while he appraises the beast. “What dark magic did they use on it?”

“They wouldn’t say how, Commander. Only said that it desires to serve a worthy cause and a noble master.”

“Do they take us for fools? This is obviously some kind of demonic-”

“If I may.” Fiona appears next to Cassandra, looking thoughtfully at the creature as it surveys its surroundings with sunken unseeing eyes. There’s a charcoal smear on her chin; she must’ve been working with Solas. “The magic that resurrected this creature is powerful but not malicious. I can examine it and determine its nature. If it is indeed being animated by a demon, I or one of your men can destroy it before it causes harm.”

The gesture is in good faith but Cullen still hesitates. Maxwell says, “I’d appreciate it, Enchanter.”

The undead horse holds still while she runs her hands over it. After a minute, the creatures snorts, a ragged hollow sound, and stamps its hind leg impatiently. She steps back, amused and intrigued, and says, “Whatever animates this beast is no demon.”

“But it’s not harmless,” Cassandra says.

“Most things aren’t,” Fiona says pointedly. “If this Collective says it seeks to serve, why not let it?”

The Bog Unicorn tilts its head in Maxwell’s direction while the two unlucky soldiers lead it away. Everyone keeps gawking at it until it’s out of sight and then Cullen shakes his head.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” he mutters.

“These are strange times. Expect to see stranger things before this is over,” Cassandra says. “Though that was… not what I expected. We should stop accepting every offer of aid, or at least thoroughly investigate first.”

The crowd slowly disperses, people talking amongst themselves about visiting the chantry to seek reassurances from Mother Giselle. Fiona wanders away to talk to a group of older mages while Cullen calls several of the gawking soldiers in for a drill.

“You should warn Master Dennet before he loses his mind, Herald,” Cassandra says wryly. “I’ll go talk to Leliana and Josephine about this.”

Maxwell walks up the snowy slope to see the horsemaster standing in front of a hastily put together pen, staring at the Bog Unicorn. Dennet turns to Maxwell with a scowl and jabs a finger at the undead beast.

“When I agreed to provide and care for the Inquisition’s _horses_ , I didn’t mean this - this thing - _what_ do you expect me to do with this, Herald?”

“Well it’s already dead so you won’t have to worry about feeding it,” Maxwell replies immediately. At the expression on the horsemaster’s weathered face, he adds, “If you don’t feel comfortable working with it, then I’ll take care of the… Bog Unicorn.”

Dennet’s eyebrow arches sharply. “Is that so?”

“My family raises warhorses and coursers. I know my way around them.”

Dennet mulls over this for a few seconds, then sighs and shakes his head. “I thought I saw it all. Found the first cases of Blight sickness in Arl Eamon’s horses. Saw the undead and darkspawn raze Redcliffe twice. But now there’s a hole in the sky and the Divine is dead. What’s an abomination with four hooves and a head?” He looks the Bog Unicorn over critically. It snorts defiantly and bows its head, hitting the fence with its grotesque “horn”. “You’ll need a bitless bridle and a narrow saddle since…. Yes, I can manage this. Give the word, Herald, and I’ll have this… beast ready for travel.”

Maxwell smiles gratefully. “Thank you.”

“Just do what you promised, and we’ll call it even.”

* * *

“A hole in the sky, time magic, an undead horse that follows only the ‘worthy’. All the Inquisition needs now is an archdemon at its doorstep,” Dorian muses.

“We do _not_ need an archdemon on our doorstep,” Maxwell replies, aghast. “Ferelden just had a Blight! It doesn’t need another.”

“I’m only saying. At the rate you’re going, you’re just as likely to trip over a pebble and rediscover Barindur.”

“Barindur?”

“A city in a time before the Imperium. Supposedly, their fountains granted eternal youth, though none of the stories explained if it also gave them eternal life. Contrary to popular belief, the two are not mutually inclusive,” Dorian says. “Anyway, during a religious celebration, High King Carinatus turned away an envoy of the High Priest of Dumat. Offended the man so much he called upon the Old God to punish the king. The city abruptly fell silent. After several months, the High King of Minrathous sent soldiers to investigate. They found nothing.”

“What do you mean, they found nothing?”

“I means exactly what I said. The road to Barindur ended at a barren wasteland. Not a stone remained. The city had disappeared. Vanished.” Dorian shrugs. “That’s the story. You’re more likely to fall into the Deep Roads, I imagine.”

“Probably. Haven isn’t far from Orzammar.”

They reach the clearing on the outskirts of the village and share a look before walking to opposite ends. Maxwell hefts his greatsword and Dorian casts a barrier.

“To first blood or until I knock you out?”

“Your overconfidence is inspiring,” Maxwell replies, grinning. “Let’s try to avoid the blood-letting.”

“May the best man win,” Dorian says and carpets the snow with fire mines.

* * *

Maxwell stops mid-stride while leaving Josephine and Minaeve’s shared office. An argument is carrying on in the room at the back of the chantry. He looks over his shoulder but the doors are almost shut; a tiny gap in between gives him a glimpse of the former Grand Enchanter tilting her chin up at someone before stepping back and out of sight.

“-our backs, Enchanter. You are no longer the rebellion. If you require something, make an official request and the quartermaster will handle it. Otherwise, people will suspect-”

Cullen.

“Like you, Commander?” Fiona asks coldly.

“I’m not - that is neither here nor there. The Inquisition is the priority. Sealing the Breach, uncovering the circumstances behind the Divine’s death, restoring peace and order to Thedas, they all come first.”

“Not at the expense of my people. Might I point out that you came in here demanding I tell you _exactly_ what I was planning to do with all that lyrium?” A weighted pause. “You still suspect us. Don’t deny it.”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Then what is it? Where do you think your fears come from?”

“If I may point out,” Solas’s voice cuts in. “Commander, the Inquisition has almost no lyrium. Without it, the mages cannot help the Herald close the Breach.”

“She could have just told us that-”

“So you’ll accept his word but not mine, your ally?” Fiona asks. “That is what I am, do you recall? Am I not capable of making the best decision for my people, your _allies_ in this struggle? Or do you insist on going through ‘proper channels’ as though this is a Circle and we are your charges?”

“Not everything is about the war, Enchanter,” Cullen says.

“Then you should not have come in here demanding answers from me as if it was your right.”

Cullen sighs. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have… I was only concerned-”

“Of course you were,” the enchanter says.

The commander changes tactics. “Couldn’t you make up for the low lyrium supply by bringing more mages to the temple grounds?”

“You’ll be surprised by how many are apprentices. And a number of them are _children_. Others simply lack the training or talent, and we don’t have time to teach them. So you see, there are fewer of us than you think.”

“She is right,” Solas says. “Mages with years of experience are best able to help the Herald seal the Beach….”

Maxwell decides he’s heard enough and that he doesn’t need to intervene before Cullen and Fiona destroy the alliance. He continues down the chantry hall but slows upon seeing Vivienne leaning against her table, staring at a piece of paper in her hands. There’s an odd look on her face, a strange glimmer of distress, but it disappears when she notices him. She quickly folds the letter and tucks it away.

“Did you need something, my dear?”

He might regret this, but he tilts his head to the back of the chantry and asks, “Do you know what they’re arguing about?”

She sighs. “Lyrium. Apparently, Enchanter Fiona decided of her own accord to purchase a significant amount of it from smugglers. She’s developed some truly unsavory and selfish habits.” Another sigh, and then Vivienne looks at him sharply. “If the commander had not found out and put a stop to it, she could’ve started a scandal and ruined the Inquisition. Need I remind you that you chose to ally with her? Go address the situation before it boils over.”

He shifts uneasily and then stops when he notices her watching his every move. “I heard Solas say we have no lyrium. Is that true?”

“It is, but that’s not the problem. Her attempt to circumvent the Inquisition’s chain of command to get what she wants is. She appears to have forgotten that she is only here thanks to your timely intervention. See that she doesn’t forget it.”

He winces internally. Vivienne will never forgive him, will she? “I’ll tell her to go through the requisitions office next time.”

“If by ‘office’ you mean a rickety table out in the cold,” Vivienne says with a delicate scoff. “When the lyrium arrives - and I know it will, if your spymaster has any say in the matter - remember to assign eyes on it at all times. You can never trust what a mage will do with all that lyrium within reach.”

Down the hall, a door opens and Cullen walks out looking utterly winded.

“If you’ll excuse me, dear,” Vivienne says, turning away, “I have my own matters to attend to.”

Maxwell steps aside and intercepts the commander. Cullen stops and blinks at him. Apparently he didn’t see the Herald standing in the middle of the hall, which says a great deal about what happened in the meeting room. “Herald. You’re - good. There’s something I need to discuss with you and Cassandra.”

“It’s not about lyrium, is it?”

Cullen sighs heavily and kneads his temple, then gestures for Maxwell to follow him out the door. “Let’s discuss this elsewhere.”

Maxwell follows him into the shadow of the unadorned chantry. He scuffs at an elfroot sprig growing in the snow while Cullen paces, searching for words.

“Cullen,” Maxwell prompts after a minute of watching him walk in a stressful circle.

The former templar sighs, fogging the air. “I was hoping to keep this under wraps but…. Fiona tried to purchase lyrium from smugglers.”

“Vivienne told me.”

“She must’ve heard everything. I was hoping that wouldn’t be the case.” Cullen stares off into the distance. “Fiona needs to understand that her actions will only hurt the Inquisition.”

“But… do you think you should be the person to tell her that?” he ventures. Cullen’s face becomes unreadable and he quickly adds, “You were a templar, and everything you said… what Circle mage wouldn’t get angry? Nothing was ever freely given in the Circle. They always had to ask for permission and they didn’t always get it.”

Cullen arches an eyebrow. “How would you know this?”

“Family in the Circle and the Order. They told me everything. She was the Grand Enchanter, Commander. She started the revolt for a reason. Don’t give her another one.”

“It wasn’t my intention. I-”

“I’ll talk to her,” Maxwell says. “I’ll tell her that all she needs to do is ask.” He considers the older, weary man. “You told me you wanted to make amends for your past. If you keep thinking like a templar, you’ll keep having these fights… I think that’ll hurt the Inquisition more.”

“Blind faith, Herald-”

“We have to start somewhere,” he replies. “No one ever trusted them before. Isn’t it time to change that?”

Cullen is confounded. “Not the words I expected from someone who’s neither a mage nor a templar.”

“My revered mother thought the way to end the war was to listen to those who spent their lives locked away from the world,” Maxwell says. He smiles wryly. “She wasn’t very popular with the local nobles.”

“I can imagine.” The former templar sighs and looks up at the Breach. “You’re right. I didn’t - I’ll apologize to her later today. Thank you for reminding me why I’m here.” He smiles tiredly and then catches himself. “You… know this isn’t going anywhere, right?”

“What isn’t - oh. I know.” His face burns with the memory. “I only - I don’t want this alliance to fall apart. No one’s heard anything from Therinfal in days. Right now, the mages are our best chance of closing the Breach. They want it gone just as much as we do. You have to trust that.”

“I know.” Cullen gestures for Maxwell to follow him back out to the village square and points in Cassandra’s direction; the Seeker is talking with Leliana about something, her back to them. “It’ll take a few days to find a reputable lyrium trader and the coin to purchase it. Then you have to consider the time it’ll take to bring the shipment up here. We’re still clearing roads and dealing with bandits. Weeks will go by before the lyrium arrives and we can attempt to close the Breach. That should give us enough time to solve a problem.”

“What is it?”

“One of our patrols has gone missing in a mire in southern Ferelden.”


	2. threnodies 5: nothing shall be lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **If you are subscribed to this story** and wondering why you have an alert for a second chapter instead of the eleventh, please read the note in the first chapter.
> 
>  **If you are reading this for the first time** , I hope you enjoy it.

The journey to the Fallow Mire begins with an overcast sky shrouding even the Breach and an undead horse running through the village like an inauspicious portent. 

People jump out of the way of the bridled and saddled Bog Unicorn cantering through the gathering outside Haven’s gates to stand before a somewhat dumbfounded Herald. Maxwell slowly reaches out to take hold of its reins and then looks around it at the horsemaster huffing and puffing down the dirt path from the horse pens. 

“Damned beast, you think you can fool me - oh. I see you caught it," Dennet says. “Best keep a tight hold and a close eye on it, Herald. Got a mind of its own.” 

Varric shakes his head, almost smacking his horse’s muzzle. “I’ve seen some shit, but this….”

The flustered horsemaster busies himself inspecting the nervous flesh-and-blood mounts while Cassandra returns to her discussion with the sergeant leading the soldiers. Blackwall slings his newly crafted shield over his back while Krem and the Iron Bull have last-minute words about the Chargers’ mission to Therinfal Redoubt. Sera saunters out of Haven, toting a few suspicious jars in her hands and on her belt. Dorian follows soon after, clutching a cloak tightlyaround his shoulders and looking miserable with the weather. 

“Snow’s coming,” Blackwall muses and someone - Dorian, probably - groans. “Could cause delays if we don’t leave the mountains soon.”

“Then we’re moving out now,” Cassandra says, striding to her waiting horse while the sergeant goes to organize the soldiers. “I’m not waiting another day to bring our soldiers back.”

Solas is leading his mount away from the party to another, smaller one standing near another dirt path. Fiona and Cullen are there along with several soldiers, a Starkhaven templar named Belinda Darrow, and two of Fiona’s mages. 

“Where’s he off to?” Sera wonders loudly.

“Bringing back lyrium from Orzammar,” Cassandra says while urging her horse to the head of the group. She looks down at Maxwell. “Herald.”

He eyes the Bog Unicorn’s bony black head while climbing into the saddle. The horse snorts, a strange hollow sound, and immediately strides forward to Cassandra’s side. Something cold touches his forehead and Maxwell looks up at the snow slowly drifting down from the gray sky.

They lose an entire day navigating the increasingly treacherous path down through the mountains. When they reach the outpost sitting at the intersection between the Imperial Highway and the mountain road, everyone is muddy and miserable except for Vivienne, who seems impervious to everything, and Maxwell, whose undead horse somehow always managed to find sure footing in the snow and slush.

“We’re leaving before dawn,” Cassandra announces in the evening while everyone’s sitting around the fires, trying to feel warm again, “so get some sleep while you can.”

“Did you hear from Harding?” Maxwell asks. He doesn’t remember seeing a raven arrive at camp.

“No, but we need to move quickly. The sooner we get our people back from the Avvar, the better.”

People slowly disperse for the night, soldiers picking lots to determine who’s taking the first shift while the others bicker over who shares tents with whom. Maxwell isn’t keen on sleep yet so he takes out _Ferelden: Folklore and History_ and flips through the pages to find the chapters on the Avvar. 

“If I knew I was spending the nights out in the snow like a common bandit, I never would’ve set foot outside Minrathous,” Dorian grumbles.

“You’re welcome to go back,” Cassandra says.

“Maybe I’ll take my chances in Nevarra. It’s not Tevinter and there’s no snow. Is there? I haven’t visited in years.”

Maxwell tries to focus on his book instead of the sudden frigid burst of dread in his chest.

“If you’re going to complain,” Vivienne says while rising to her feet, “then I suggest you do it where no one can hear you.”

Eventually, Maxwell and Dorian are the only ones sitting by the fire. Cassandra is the last to leave, giving Maxwell a look reminiscent of the servants who caught him reading in the library late at night. He turns back to his book, telling himself to stop reading at the end of the current page.

He’s been staring at the second-last paragraph for about fifteen minutes when Dorian awkwardly clears his throat and says, “You know I wasn’t serious, right?”

Maxwell looks up. “What?”

“When I said I’d go back north,” Dorian says, shifting uncomfortably on the split log serving as a bench. “It was all in jest. I spent weeks in those blasted hills following Alexius and dodging your little mage-templar war. A little snow isn’t going to chase me away.”

“I… okay.”

“I just want to be clear,” the mage continues. “In case you… if your allies - I - _kaffas_. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.”

“Okay,” Maxwell says again, slowly.

Dorian waits until he realizes that’s all Maxwell is going to say. “Now that that’s settled, we should - I should turn in.”

Right. Sleep. He should get to it. Maxwell closes his book and tucks it under his arm while getting to his feet. Dorian is waiting for him and summons veilfire to light the way to the tents.

“What is that you’re reading, exactly?” Dorian asks.

“Sister Petrine’s _Ferelden: Folklore and History_.”

“Trying to educate yourself on the Avvar currently holding your soldiers hostage?”

Maxwell shrugs. “If I was, I’d be reading her “Tales of the Mountain-People”. Seggrit was selling this one so I bought it. Used to read it all the time until....” He frowns at the mage’s surprised scoff. “What?”

“You read about Ferelden history for fun?” There’s a curious gleam in Dorian’s eyes as he asks, “What else did you read?”

“Uh… _The Exalted Marches: An Examination of Chantry Warfare_ by Sister Petrine. _A Study of the Fifth Blight_ , all volumes. _Land of the Wilders_ by Mother Ailis. Everything by Brother Genitivi….”

* * *

By the time the weather turns perpetually gray and the nonstop rain muddies all roads south, the party has fended off two bands of unfortunate highwaymen and closed four rifts. One appeared on the outskirts of a small village that assumed the rift was merely part of life next to the Fallow Mire. Their confusion when told the Herald would take care of the rift left Maxwell wondering what he should expect to find in the Mire if magical anomalies are a regular occurrence here. 

In the end, irate villagers demanded recompense for the loss of two farmhouses and the local chantry during the ensuing battle between the Inquisition and demons, forcing Maxwell and Cassandra to leave behind several soldiers to help rebuild. Maxwell had to run to keep up with Cassandra as she stormed out of the village to the others waiting on the road, muttering darkly about lost time. Everyone gave her a wide berth while she found and ordered a scout to return to Haven to inform Josephine. 

“You’d think they _want_ the weird green thing in the sky gone,” Varric had said with one last suspicious glance at the gloomy village.

“Wasn’t doing nothing,” Sera replied. “Poking nests is funny when no one gets hurt.”

“You have a jar of _bees_ on you,” Blackwall said with a shudder. 

“They were cheating people! They deserved it.”

On the morning of the third day, two armed men step onto the dark road in front of Maxwell and Cassandra. One quick glance and then they salute. “Herald. Seeker Cassandra.”

“Is Harding here?” she asks.

They point the way to a soggy camp next to an abandoned village called Fisher’s End. Maxwell peers through the wet gloom at the skeletons of houses, the wood slowly rotting away from the rain. He dismounts but rather than hand the reins over to a nervous soldier, he loops them around the saddle horn, pats the Bog Unicorn’s bony shoulder, and pushes it to follow the other horses to a drier sheltered place. The relieved woman then tells him where Harding will be and points the way.

Harding is inside a tent, drying off her face and dripping hair. She immediately jumps to attention and salutes Maxwell when he steps inside. 

“Welcome to the Fallow Mire,” she says wryly. She leans to the side when Cassandra enters after him. “Seeker.”

“Does it ever stop raining here?” Maxwell asks while following Harding to a small desk. The soggy turf squelches underfoot and gives way; he wonders how anyone thought establishing a village here was a good idea.

“According to the locals, not in a long time,” she says. “After a plague hit, they all left. Not sure if it was the Blight or some kind of sickness.”

“That’s reassuring,” Cassandra says. “What happened here since you arrived?”

“Set up camp, sent people out to find ours and the Avvar holding them.” Harding shakes her head. “It’s treacherous. Bogs like this, if you don’t watch your footing you’ll suddenly sink underwater. Already lost someone that way.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Maxwell says. He didn’t think they’d have casualties already.

“Thank you,” she says. She points to a wrinkled map laid flat on the table, the corners held down by heavy objects. She draws a line from Fisher’s End to the other side of the bog. “They’re held at Hargrave Keep. That’s all we could find out before the Avvar caught onto us and attacked. They outnumber us and they’re moving closer each day. Only thing keeping them from taking Fisher’s End is the Mire itself. Well, that and rifts. I marked the ones we found here and here, Herald.”

“Even with reinforcements, this area is exposed,” Cassandra says. “No barricades?”

“We’re trying. Ground’s too soft so it’s a work-in-progress.”

“I’ll take care of them,” Cassandra decides. “Herald, you should scout ahead and deal with any Avvar and rifts you find.”

“And stay away from the water,” Harding warns. “Bad things happen if you disturb it.”

One hour later, Maxwell does just that. He slips on soggy grass and finds himself knee-deep in murky waters. He scrambles back onto land but the damage is done - corpses rise, armed with rusty swords and bows. Sera shrieks and the nearest corpse collapses with a splash, stuck full of arrows.

The other bodies shamble towards them.

“Maker’s breath,” Varric mutters while cranking Bianca. “Good job, Buttercup.”

“What? I didn’t expect that! Who expects dead things to just come out of the water? No one! No one does!”

Blackwall bashes the nearest corpse with his new silverite shield and then steps into the pond to stab another through with his longsword, snapping its spine. Maxwell groans when the violent ripples disturb more waterlogged corpses and wades back into the flooded pond to the Warden’s side. A green barrier wraps around them and Maxwell spares a look over his shoulder at the mage standing on the hillside, watches bright energy arc over him to bombard the nearest walking undead. Maxwell lops off its head and kicks it back into the water, then turns to sever the spine of another. Arrows and magic fly around him and Blackwall but for every corpse they cut down, two more rise.

“Think we’d best get out of the water,” Blackwall grunts while taking the brunt of a corpse’s attack. He shoves his shield back hard enough to snap its neck. “Longer we’re in it, the more bodies we disturb.”

“You don’t say,” Maxwell says, wiping ichor and pond scum off his face.

The Warden laughs while forging ahead, blocking blows and keeping the undead distracted while Maxwell picks them off. They kill the ones following them out of the water while Varric, Sera, and Dorian take care of the rest still wading through the pond.

“Well,” Dorian says once they’re all on the same side of it. “That was exciting.”

Someone hollers from a distance. “You all right over there?” the Iron Bull shouts from the far side of Fisher’s End where he and several soldiers are finding solid ground to set up the barricades.

“Don’t go in the water!” Sera shouts back.

Something - someone, judging by the accompanying yelp - splashes. “Too late! Ha!”

She grips her bow tightly and glares at the now-tranquil pond. “She could’ve told us about the _walking dead people_. Everywhere’s water! How’re we supposed to stay out of it?”

“Well, we don’t have much of a choice.” Blackwall nods to the muddy road vanishing into the damp gray distance. “Road should take us to the other side of this bog and I bet it doesn’t stay above the flooding.”

“Lovely,” Varric says. “Should’ve worn better boots.”

“I should’ve stayed in Val Royeaux,” Dorian says.

Maxwell sighs.

* * *

The Fallow Mire does not improve.

The Inquisition spends the next three days trekking through soggy turf and on muddy roads, searching for a path around the flooded bog. That’s what Harding claims, though to Maxwell it feels like they’ve been in the Mire for over a week - the days are impossible to measure under a perpetually overcast sky and some have started complaining about the lack of sun. Maxwell won’t admit that he also misses the night sky and the ominous Breach over the mountains.

The nights are worse. Deep darkness shrouds the Mire and the fires struggle to burn in the damp, putting people in a terrible mood. Shifts rotate every two hours, braving the rain to watch for Avvar scouts and the occasional shambling corpse. Maxwell often stays awake long after his turn is over, stubbornly reading Sister Petrine by valiant firelight under an awning in the middle of camp.

“Boss,” the Iron Bull says on the fourth night. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

He shrugs and turns the page. “Not tired yet.” He frowns when a raindrop dots it and adjusts his cloak to shield the book from windblown rain. “I’ll turn in when you do.”

“All right, then.” The Iron Bull continues sharpening his battleaxe with a borrowed whetstone for a few seconds. “Mind if I ask you something?”

“What is it?”

“Something going on between you and the resident Vint?”

He looks up sharply. “Like what, exactly?”

“Oh I don’t know, whatever it is you two get up to late at night?”

He grimaces at the sly insinuation. “Sometimes I have bad nights and he can’t sleep, so we fight it out.” The Iron Bull stares at him. “I sleep better after dodging life-threatening spells for a half-hour. Why? What are you implying?”

“You know _exactly_ what I’m implying,” the Iron Bull drawls. “After what I heard about you and the commander, it’s not hard to guess.”

Maxwell almost buries his face in his hands but that would mean dropping the book. “Didn’t know your reports included details on whatever love life you think I have.”

“Ha! No, they don’t give two shits about that. I just pick these things up. Old habits die hard, especially around interesting people.”

“You think I’m interesting?”

“There’s a hole in the sky and that thing on your hand’s the only key to closing it. You can’t tell me that’s not interesting. And for someone barely grown into his breeches, you’re doing all right leading this Inquisition.”

“I’m not,” he says. “Cassandra and Leliana are the leaders. They started this.”

“Right, because they’re the ones people go to for answers, for help, for solutions. You should stop selling yourself short.”

Maxwell opens his book again, not wanting to follow this conversation’s direction. That way lies the great unknown, a terrifying void with no answers for where his role in this quest to save Thedas will take him. 

He reads a paragraph three times and then, almost desperately, asks, “What _did_ you hear about me and Cullen?”

“It was incredibly painful and unforgettable to watch.”

He sighs. “Varric.”

The Iron Bull laughs. “Who else? Anyway, think my shift’s over.”

Right on cue, a bleary-eyed Sera sticks her head out of her tent. “What’s out there?”

“You in my spot,” the Iron Bull says cheerfully. “Also, rain. No corpses… yet.”

“Tits,” she mutters. “Why couldn’t I stay in Haven?”

“Shut the tent flap, dear, you’re letting in the cold,” Vivienne snaps from within the tent.

Maxwell assumes the rest of the night passed uneventfully, save for the brief  
moment of consciousness before realizing he was only hearing the heavy rain against the tent’s canvas sides. If he has a hard time crawling out of his bedroll in the grey morning, he blames it on staying up late after spending the previous day walking through sticky mud and fending off stubborn corpses.

There may be a road going around the flooded lakes rather than through them. He and the others set off on the muddy path, determined to find where it ends. Five minutes after leaving Fisher’s End, the Iron Bull leans in and asks, “How you feeling, Boss?”

“Hm? Fine. Why?”

The Qunari shrugs. “You kept kicking my hip. And my leg. Almost got me in the crotch. Thought I’d have to hogtie you before you knocked the tent down.”

Someone behind them stifles a cough. Maxwell’s face burns and he stares at the murky lake, half-heartedly wishing for a bogfisher or a band of corpses to burst out to distract the others. 

“I’m not usually - I can switch tents for the night or-”

“Don’t worry about it. Just wanted to know if you’re sleeping fine. People don’t do well with tons of rotting bodies walking out of lakes and ponds trying chop their heads off.”

“Try a castle full of red lyrium and Venatori,” Dorian mutters somewhere behind them.

“I’m fine,” Maxwell says and ends the conversation.

It doesn’t end in his head, though. He can’t stop thinking about the Iron Bull’s words, the knowing in his voice as he pries without prying. The Iron Bull will never understand what Maxwell sees at night because he wasn’t there when the faceless Elder One came for him and Dorian in a future the Breach was tearing apart. A quick glance at the mage confirms that Dorian is thinking of that same future.

They follow the muddy path along the lake. Rock formations loom before them. A rotten house sits at the end of a little strip of land still attached to the shore; Maxwell wonders who thought it a brilliant idea to build a home there. He looks around for signs of other houses and sees the silhouette of a stone pillar erected on top of a grassy knoll. It looks exactly like a pillar they found near Fisher’s End two days ago.

He wishes he didn’t see it. “Look.”

Varric groans. “Oh come on.”

Dorian is already marching up the hill, undeterred by the slippery patches of grass or the slope. Maxwell follows close behind and watches him circle the pillar, searching. Dorian stops and taps one of the pillar’s sides. “There’s another rune here. Can’t read it without veilfire, though.”

The Iron Bull looks at the pillar and then at Dorian warily. “That weird magic fire. Right.”

“Can’t we just walk away, pretend we never saw it?” Varric asks.

“Someone left the rune here for a reason, someone I’m starting to suspect is hiding somewhere in this shithole,” Dorian replies. “Don’t tell me you don’t want to know why.”

“And what if lighting the beacon releases another demon?” Maxwell asks.

“Really. After everything we faced, you’re telling me you’re scared of a single demon? Don’t worry. I’m here,” Dorian says and lights the beacon.

“Well that’s reassuring,” Varric mutters, and then hauls Bianca out when something shrieks in the rain.

Twenty minutes later, Maxwell kicks the last corpse back into the black waters and Dorian sets it on fire; up on the slippery hill, the Iron Bull shouts triumphantly while slamming his axe into the demon’s head, splitting it open.

“Never seen a more stubborn bunch of dead people,” Varric says while yanking crossbow bolts out of a slimy ribcage. “And I’ve been on Sundermount.”

Maxwell wobbles while pulling himself out of the muck at the water’s edge and Dorian catches him, steadying him while he tries not to lose his boots to the bog.

“Thanks,” he says, smiling, and looks up at the lit beacon. “So, the rune?”

“... what? Oh, right. The rune.” Dorian still waits until he’s on solid ground before going back up the hill. “Time to unravel the mystery.”

While Dorian transcribes the symbols into his little notebook, Varric and the Iron Bull go poking through the rotting crates and sacks littering the hill and a small dock at the edge of another pond. Varric finds a soggy leather-bound journal and carefully opens it. He reads a damp page and loudly says, “Think I found something, Sparkler. Hey, Pavus! Talking to you.”

“Did you just call me ‘Sparkler’?”

“Flashy guy that likes zapping things with a big stick. So, Sparkler. What, it works.” Varric holds up the journal. “Written by someone named Widris. Might be a mage judging by their… dealing with demons.”

“They never know better,” the Iron Bull says, shaking his head.

“Explains the ones bound to these pillars,” Maxwell says, glancing at the residue the spindly demon left on the ground. “Ready to go?”

“Just a moment!” Dorian scribbles furiously before tucking his notebook away and following the others down the knoll.

The road takes them past old stone ruins and wandering corpses to the steep palisades surrounding the mire. The path straddles the strip of land between stone and water, and leads them through a series of caverns to a clearing.

“Could set up camp here,” Varric suggests.

Maxwell looks around. “Agreed. Who wants to go back to Fisher’s End to tell the others?”

“Why did I agree to come here?” Dorian sighs.

* * *

It takes a full day to set up camp at Old Thoroughfare.

Most of the day was spent fishing supplies out of the water after someone slipped on the wooden bridge and fell into the four soldiers behind him. They stumbled into the water and the tidal wave brought out a horde of corpses that in turn drew the attention of a wraith lurking near the rotten house. The fighting was chaotic, people tripping over each other in their haste to either save the supplies or kill the undead.

“That was messy,” the Iron Bull said afterwards, grinning from ear to ear with mud and ichor splattered all over his face and chest.

“That was complete chaos,” Cassandra muttered while helping a soldier pull a sack out of the lake. “Once we set up camp, remind me to get that bridge repaired so that this doesn’t happen again.”

Blackwall and Dorian were the unlucky ones. Dorian couldn’t get out of the way of a sword-waving corpse fast enough and Blackwell kept fighting with an arrow sticking out of his right arm until everyone was safe.

“Barriers, dear,” Vivienne tutted while Dorian uncapped a small green vial and tilted its contents into his mouth. “I thought you knew better than that.”

“Must’ve slipped my mind.”

“I suggest not following the esteemed Herald headlong into danger next time. Your feet will thank you and you won’t be in range of those ghastly things.”

Sera sat on a stack of crates, a bundle of salvaged arrows in one hand and a half-eaten apple in the other. “Can we go now?”

In the evening, Cassandra pulls out Harding’s annotated map and points to a mark not far from Old Thoroughfare. “There’s a rift here but it’s not active. She also spotted an Avvar scout taking shelter in one of the houses.”

“Really? Just one?” Maxwell asks.

“Yes. According to Harding, he’s been there for days observing the rift. Hey may also be a forward scout waiting for you to appear.” Cassandra rolls up the map. “As long as there aren’t any setbacks, we should reach Hargrave Keep within five days.”

* * *

He wakes too soon after crawling into his bedroll, bolting upright with a gasp. Varric grunts and rolls onto his side, muttering about spikes; Maxwell prods the dwarf’s shoulder twice to reassure himself before forcing himself to calm. Faint firelight glows through the thick canvas and if he concentrates, he can hear the nightwatch talking quietly under the constant pitter-patter of rain.

Maxwell pulls a coat on and leaves the tent, flinching when the cold rain hits head and neck. He squints in the gloom before walking to the person standing next to the low stubborn fire at the heart of the camp. Dorian is staring at it, face blank, and seeming unaware that he’s drenched in rainwater.

“Didn’t you have first watch?” Maxwell asks.

“Sleep wouldn’t come to me despite everything I promised it,” Dorian replies. “Told the Iron Bull that I was more than happy to take his spot and he didn’t object. Looked pretty smug, actually.”

“Huh.”

A quiet minute passes before Dorian asks, “Bad dream?”

“Not about the Mire,” he says. “But this place doesn’t help. I almost miss seeing the Breach whenever I look up.” He rocks back and forth, feeling the mud give way under his boots. “Learn anything from those runes? Or did we fight a bunch of demons for nothing?”

“It’s a lot of nonsense, mostly. Without a cipher, I can’t make sense of them. The journal Varric found gave me plenty of clues, though. Its owner was definitely the mage who placed the runes and demons there. This ‘Widris’ is very paranoid and dealt with the demons in exchange for protection and power. I imagine you’ll want to stop them before they do something worse, like tear a hole in the Veil and create another Breach. It’s already very thin here. Wouldn’t take much effort to do it.”

Maxwell shudders at the thought and the echoes of the terror that woke him. “Let’s not go there. I don’t need another Breach.” He notices how Dorian favors his right side. “It’s not too bad, is it?”

“Hm? Oh, this?” Dorian touches his side with tentative fingers, grimacing a bit. “I’ve dealt with worse back home and on the road. This is nothing. Potion took care of it but the fellow who still insisted on poking and prodding me there isn’t letting me leave camp for another day. I’m afraid I’m grounded here, same as Blackwall.”

The fire continues burning despite the rain. Nightwatch putters around, watching the muddy road, the lakes, the caverns at the back of the camp. A bogfisher suddenly surfaces near the road through Old Thoroughfare and a soldier jumps back with a little shriek. Others laugh and slap him on the back while the creature snorts and waddles onto land.

Dorian sighs. “I’d propose something to preoccupy ourselves with but I’ll only aggravate this and I’d also like to not explain how you ended up in the middle of the lake and I instigated an invasion of murderous corpses.”

Maxwell huffs at the imagery. “That’ll be something.”

There are safer, less troublesome ways to pass the night - a book is waiting for him inside his pack - but he feels that itch, that restless need to do _something_. He looks at the two soldiers guarding the cavern entrance and a thought takes root.

“We can go back through there. Should be far enough from camp that we don’t wake anyone up.”

“And what do you suggest we do?” Dorian asks.

He thinks about the bogfisher and the chaos from earlier in the day. “Toss rocks into the water and kill whatever walks out. You don’t have to do anything complicated, the night won’t be a total waste, and we’ll have fewer corpses to deal with in the morning.”

Dorian brightens at the suggestion, a wide smile gracing his face. “Yes, let’s do that.”

When Maxwell slips back inside the tent much later in the night, Varric is awake and cleaning Bianca in the light of a small lamp. Varric’s nose crinkles. “Tell me you cleaned up first.”

“It was just the one corpse for requisitions. You can ask why they wanted the heart.” Maxwell sets his greatsword down and sheds the damp layers. He tries not to think of the slimy feel of the flesh he carved out or the damp moldy stench that won’t go away. “Don’t worry, we took care of the rest.”

Varric shakes his head while reassembling Bianca. “How worried should I be that you willingly went out there looking for things to kill at this hour, whatever _this_ hour is?”

“You don’t need to worry about me,” he says and crawls into his bedroll.

He’s asleep in minutes, and he doesn’t dream.

* * *

“You sure we need to do anything? It’s not actively spewing demons at us. Why don’t we just keep moving and not go poking?”

“It’s not active _now_ ,” Vivienne says. “There’s always a risk it’ll open later and ‘spew’ those demons out. Better to lance the wound now than to let it fester.”

They watch the rift in question from a distance. The mark thrums quietly in Maxwell’s hand, unaware of what’s ahead.

Varric sighs. “I’m just saying.”

The Iron Bull suddenly stiffens. “Got company.”

A hulking figure is leaving one of the abandoned houses to pace around the inactive rift, a giant maul resting on his shoulders. He must be the Avvar scout Harding warned.

“What is he doing?” Maxwell wonders. “Is he just… watching it? Why?”

“You read about them, what do you think?” Varric asks.

He shrugs. “All the books I read stopped making sense after the Breach happened.”

“... okay, that’s fair.”

“The rift is the priority here,” Cassandra says. “If the Avvar scout refuses to back off, he can help us fight the demons.”

The scout turns around as they approach. Up close, he’s an even more imposing figure, clad in bulky lamellar armor and a fur-trimmed helm covering half his face. He sets his massive maul on the ground, holding it as easily as Vivienne does her stave.

“So you’ve finally come.”

Everyone tenses and Vivienne’s hands glow white with cold. The Avvar scout ignores them entirely; his eyes are on Maxwell’s left hand as he gestures to the twisting translucent wound in the Veil. “Can you heal this?”

“Heal? I… yes, I can close them,” Maxwell says carefully. His left hand twitches at the thought and the scout narrows his eyes. “But the only way I can get rid of this is to open it first and if I do, demons will come out.”

“Demons, I can fight. Not this.” The Avvar steps back and hefts his maul. “Show me, Herald of Andraste.”

At a nod, the others fan out, weapons unsheathed, bracing for the inevitable. Maxwell looks around and then raises his left hand. His breath hitches at the shock of magic as the mark reaches into the rift and pries it open. Green wisps arc out of the tear, demons spilling into the physical world; they materialize and immediately lunge at the nearest living thing. He reaches for his greatsword as Vivienne wraps a barrier around them.

The nearest shade freezes in ice and he slams his sword pommel into it, shattering the demon. The Iron Bull charges past and plows into a group of demons, swinging his axe and tossing them aside. One hits Cassandra’s shield and she guts it; she then shouts in Nevarran at the two demons advancing on Varric, distracting them; Varric quickly unloads Bianca on their exposed backs while leaping out of danger. Vivienne immolates them with a searing fireball that drives back the gloom and lights up the Mire like sunlight. It does nothing to the rageful demon pulling itself out of the rift.

“Behind you!” Cassandra shouts.

Maxwell wrests his sword out of a shriveling demon. He turns with a heavy swing as the demon lunges for him with burning claws. Something slams into its head and it slumps over, stunned. Maxwell stares at the Avvar’s glowing maul and then slashes the demon when it groans and flares brightly. Vivienne sends a frigid bolt of energy at it and the demon’s flames extinguish. She throws another barrier while the Avvar turns his magicked maul on the massive enraged demon the Iron Bull cornered at the water’s edge.

A rain of crossbow bolts stop several demons in their tracks. Maxwell and Cassandra cut them down, clearing the way back to the rift. He sees hazy figures on the other side of the Veil tear, demons congregating to escape into the physical world.

“Now, Herald!” Cassandra shouts.

His left hand almost touches the rift and the shock of magic nearly brings him to his knees. Cassandra steadies him while he wills the mark to seal the rift. A shade’s arm thrusts out, trying to scratch his face, and drops to the ground as the rift vanishes.

“Lovely,” Varric says, looking disgusted with the dissolving arm. He checks Bianca over for damage before slinging her over his shoulder and goes searching the muddy ground for intact bolts.

Maxwell turns to the approaching Avvar scout. The towering man is staring at the mark burning hotly on his hand and he closes his fingers around it before moving it behind his back.

“So the rumors are true,” the Avvar says. “The Lady of the Skies has chosen you.”

The Avvar goddess of the sky and the dead. Of course the Avvar would think the Breach had something to do with her. He searches through his memories and then asks, “Are you a Sky Watcher?”

The Avvar startles, looking him over with suddenly critical eyes. The man then smiles as he comes to some silent understanding. “She has chosen well.”

“If someone can explain….” the Iron Bull loudly whispers.

“I speak for the Lady of the Skies. I read her portents and pass her messages on to those who would listen. She has spoken. Before me stands the one who would heal her and save us.” The Sky Watcher shakes his head. “The Hand of Korth would not listen. He believes challenging and defeating your Herald would bring greater glory to Korth than killing the Tevinter men roaming the south. That is why he took your soldiers.” The Avvar gestures up the road crossing Old Thoroughfare. “Beyond this point, his men search for you.”

“Tevinter?” Cassandra demands, nearly shouldering Maxwell aside. “I have not heard of this. Explain.”

“They’re gone now. I believe your people had something to do with that,” the Sky Watcher says. “They were moving west into the Frostback Basin but they retreated, leaving the Hand with few ways to earn his god glory. You are now the only worthy challenge.”

“So… you’re not with him,” Maxwell says. “Then why did you come here?”

“I read her will in the bird flocks and the clouds. She told me to come and see,” the Sky Watcher says. “I witnessed and I am satisfied with the answer.”

Maxwell wonders what Solas would say to this. He wonders what others in the far corners of Thedas think while looking at the supernatural monstrosity high above them and how they would understand it.

Vivienne clears her throat.

“Thank you for your warning, Sky Watcher,” he says. “And for helping us with the demons. I… hope to do your Lady proud. Goodbye.”

They leave him in the clearing. Maxwell looks over his shoulder to see the Sky Watcher kneeling in the mud to examine residue left behind by the dying demons. The man’s great maul glimmers in the dark, the stained steel head crackling faintly with enchantment.

“How do you know so much about the Avvar?” Cassandra eventually asks while they’re picking their way across broken bridges, careful not to disturb the water.

“I read a lot when I was young,” he says. “Couldn’t help my father with his work and I was the only child in the house. What else was there to do?”

“Your reading habits seem rather… worldly, for a Trevelyan,” she says.

“Says the Pentaghast reading the-”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she huffs, daring him to give away the serial’s name.

“You’re both weird,” Varric says.

A few minutes later, Vivienne’s shoulders stiffen and she quickly raises her head. “That apostate Dorian mentioned. I believe they’re nearby.”

“How can you tell?” Maxwell asks, squinting into the gray. He only sees rotting trees clinging to islands in the flooded lake.

“The Veil here is already thin. Consorting with demons in such a place leaves an… aura, if you will. A poisonous one, full of ill intent and reckless foolishness,” she replies, contempt dripping from every word. “If this apostate is as paranoid as your mage says it is, then we must tread carefully.”

“He’s not my mage,” Maxwell says and gets a dismissive hum in response.

The Iron Bull sticks his axe through a corpse shuffling mindlessly around a mound of dirt and rock between bridges. Maxwell then slips on rotten wood and stumbles into the water, rousing corpses buried in the silt. He tells Cassandra and the Iron Bull to stay back when they try to follow him in. “You’ll just wake more of them!”

“He’s got a point,” Varric says while quickly winding up Bianca. He shoots down a shambling corpse and reloads the crossbow. “Get your ass out of the water, Herald. Iron Lady and I’ll cover you.”

“Damn,” the Iron Bull sighs. “Was itching for another fight.”

“Another time, darling,” Vivienne says and sets a corpse on fire.

She and Varric maintain a barrage of magic and bolts while Maxwell climbs back onto land. The last corpse tries to stab his leg with its rusted sword but the Iron Bull kicks it away, breaking its spine in two.

The bridge takes them to a stone-crowned hill topped with a pillar and a familiar unlit beacon. The Iron Bull groans loudly. “How about we don't light it with that magical shit this time?”

Cassandra walks around the pillar with a critical eye and a hand resting on her sword pommel. “Explain to me how this works.”

“The apostate put runes on these beacons,” Maxwell explains. “Only way to read them is by lighting the beacon with veilfire but every time Dorian lit one, it summoned a demon. And corpses.”

“Really? And what was so important about these runes that the apostate set traps?”

He shrugs. “They’re coded messages. He can’t read them without a cipher.”

Cassandra glowers at the tower and then says, “Light it. I don’t like the idea of this apostate harnessing demons in this place or an unsuspecting mage accidentally summoning one out of curiosity.”

“That’s exactly what Sparkler did the first time,” Varric sighs while unslinging Bianca.

The mage Widris is clever; seconds after Vivienne tips veilfire into the beacon, two demons leap out of the Fade with inhuman screams. One staggers back, shot in the shoulder, and the Iron Bull swings his greateaxe at it. The other demon lunges for Vivienne, who blurs an eerie blue and materializes on the other side of the hill. The demon staggers, crusted in ice, and Cassandra smashes it with her shield. Before Maxwell can deliver a fatal blow, the demon rips into the Veil and leaps in.

“Spread out!” he warns.

Something scrapes the side of his face, drawing blood. He whirls around and raises his greatsword to block a corpse’s unsteady swing. Behind him, Varric cocks and aims Bianca at an undead archer trying to make its second shot count.

Cassandra leaps back from the green pooling under her feet but not fast enough. The demon leaps out and swipes her with its spindly limbs, knocking her down. Vivienne steps in between the Seeker and the terror demon, and throws it back with a fireball. The Iron Bull stands on the slope, bellowing in Qunlat while battering down the other demon and shrugging off the undead crawling out of a nearby flooded pond. Vivienne turns and slings out a long arcing lightning bolt that stops the corpses in their tracks. She follows with another fiery explosion and charred bones drop in the mud.

“Running out of bolts here!” Varric shouts, retreating as more corpses crawl uphill.

Maxwell aims at a terror demon’s leg and cripples it with a swing before sprinting to the dwarf’s side. He shoulders aside the undead trying to flank Varric and kicks a few back downhill. Something glows vividly green and he immediately looks at his left hand. The anchor isn’t reacting to something so what - he glances down at the Veil tearing underfoot just as a terror demon launches itself out of the Fade and throws him into the stone pillar.

“... rift but there’s nothing we can do until he wakes. We need to return to camp-”

“With an injury like that, moving him will more likely kill him….”

Maxwell cracks his eyes open and twitches when an raindrop lands on his eyelashes. His head throbs dully and his mouth tastes like bitter grass. He slowly pushes himself up against the cold wet stone he’s leaning on and his body screams in protest. He breathes harshly through the pain, willing it to subside, and tilts his head up to look at Varric standing nearby, twirling an empty glass vial between gloved fingers.

“He’s up,” Varric announces and he flinches. The dwarf notices and asks in a lower voice, “How’re you feeling?”

Maxwell has to think about it. “... awful.”

The longer he’s awake, the more aware he becomes of the soggy turf he’s sitting on and the darkening gloom surrounding the hill. He rubs water and mud off his face and twitches at a stinging sensation on his cheek, carefully prods it to confirm a graze there. He looks at the skeletal gray bodies littering the ground and at the cleaned greatsword leaning next to his head on the stone pillar. Cassandra and the Iron Bull are surveying the area around the hill; somewhere nearby, Vivienne hums an Orlesian melody under her breath.

“I got knocked out,” he sighs.

“You got knocked out,” Varric says. “Guess Hawke’s not the only hardhead I make a habit of following around, for better or worse.”

He flushes at the casual comparison to Kirkwall’s infamous Champion and laughs weakly. “There must be more to the Champion than having a thick skull.”

Varric makes a show of thinking about it. “Nah.”

Cassandra and the Iron Bull finally turn and approach him and Varric. She crouches in front of Maxwell; her face is stained with mud though the persistent rain is slowly washing it clean. “How are you feeling?”

He shrugs. “Could be worse.”

“Thankfully, it’s not,” she says and points down the hill in the opposite direction of Old Thoroughfare. “There’s a small path leading into the wilds that Harding calls the ‘Den’. She marked a rift there. Vivienne also believes the apostate is hiding nearby, but we’ll wait until you’re well enough to fight.”

“That demon threw you pretty hard,” the Iron Bull adds. “I’ve seen soldiers bleed out their ears, or drop dead the next day after complaining of a headache. How’s yours feeling, Boss?”

“Think I’ll live,” Maxwell says. He tries to gather his feet under him to prove it but everything protests. He settles against the beacon. “Now what?”

“If you can’t walk back to camp, I’ll bring it here,” Cassandra declares. “Varric, Vivienne?”

“Yeah, yeah, you didn’t need to ask,” Varric says.

“I’ll keep watch for the apostate,” Vivienne says. She’s on the other side of the pillar. “This Widris won’t get past me.”

Maxwell sighs, knowing they’re going to lose whatever “daylight” they have left moving camp here and making sure the Herald doesn’t drop dead of a headache, which sounds like a terribly embarrassing way to go. “I’m sorry. I should’ve-”

“I sincerely doubt anyone will blame you for being attacked by a demon,” Vivienne says. “But next time, dear, invest in a steel helm.”

“I don’t like them,” he mumbles, earning a chuckle from Varric. “So what did I miss?”

“Oh, just me caving that demon’s head in after you went down,” the Iron Bull says cheerfully. “Cassandra gutted the other one. After that, the undead were a piece of cake. Too bad you were out for most of it, Boss. It was satisfyingly violent.”

Cassandra rolls her eyes. “I’m sure you’ll find more things to cave in soon enough. Let’s go.”

* * *

“Got dragged through half the bog, eh? Bet Vivvy didn’t like that! No baths here. Gotta stick it out in the muck like the rest of us nobodies.”

Vivienne ignores Sera entirely and tosses something at Dorian while striding by in her muddy wedge-shaped heels. He drops his journal to catch it and stares at her in confusion. 

“The apostate’s journal,” she says curtly. “I hope this cipher you talked about is in there or the entire day will have been a waste.”

Both of Blackwall’s busy eyebrows hit his hairline as he stares at Maxwell, Cassandra, and Varric trudging into camp. “Did you fight the entire swamp?”

“Very funny,” Varric grumbles while shaking mud off of his boots. “Almost wish _I_ got hit with an arrow so I could sit that shit out. Two days of mud, demons, skeletons, and apostates, and I never, ever want to see another revenant again.” He glowers at the sky. “Can’t believe I miss Haven.”

Everyone misses Haven. The soldiers patrolling the hill grumble and glower at the sky, the waters, the mud under their squelching boots. Maxwell feels for them; he grew up along the Waking Sea and even he wasn’t prepared for the persistent heavy damp of the Mire. 

“Report,” Cassandra asks of a soldier and Maxwell cocks his head towards them.

“Spotted three Avvar soldiers up the road, Seeker,” the soldier replies promptly. “They’re either unaware of our presence or keeping their distance.”

“Double the patrols and salvage what you can from the abandoned houses for barricades. They’re not ambushing us at night.”

“Yes, Seeker.”

Maxwell slowly pulls off his vambraces and wet gloves before sitting down in front of the campfire. The low fire sputters and burns valiantly, providing light rather than heat. It only takes minutes for him to start shivering but he’s reluctant to retreat to his tent, to make himself stand up and walk. His head isn’t such a mess now but his body aches to the bone.

“Got no more demons to worry about, right?” the Iron Bull asks. “Apostate didn’t set any more traps or that magic fire shit, right?”

“I hope not,” Maxwell says. He wipes water off his face and looks at Dorian. “Anything in there?”

“Besides the paranoid ramblings of a pretentious egocentric mage?” Dorian asks while skimming the journal. “Making sense of this could take days. Ask me then.”

Cassandra joins them by the fire. “Avvar are spread thin between here and the keep. Can you fight, Blackwall?”

Blackwall shakes his head. “Arm’s still out of commission.” He shows her his arm; pale pink is leaking through the bandage wound tightly around it. “All this rain isn’t helping.”

“Then you should be in your tent rather than out here. Sera?”

“Fine, fine. I’ll go.”

“Who wants some bad news?” Dorian suddenly asks.

The Iron Bull groans. “Don’t tell me the apostate hid more magical booby traps out there.”

“Well….”

* * *

They stare at the stone pillar, the unlit beacon, and then at Dorian.

“Just get this over with,” Cassandra sighs, unsheathing her sword.

Better prepared for Widris’s tricks, they easily counter and overwhelm the demons and shambling corpses summoned by the veilfire beacon. Afterwards, Cassandra nudges aside a demon’s crumbling body distastefully and says, “That had better be the last of them.”

Dorian holds a handful of veilfire up to a face of the pillar. “According to the journal, this is the last one.” He slowly moves the veilfire across the wet stone and writing shimmers in the eerie light. “I think our wayward apostate was concocting a poison.”

“That’s my alley.” Sera yanks an arrow out of a corpse’s punctured skull. She makes a face while flicking off the bits of grey matter stuck to the arrowhead. “Can I use it?”

“She made deals with demons to protect a _poison recipe_?” Maxwell asks incredulously, raising a hand to touch the back of his head.

“Not just that but like I said, it’ll take days to decipher her words.” Dorian looks around before picking up a piece of a broken crate. He shoves it into Maxwell’s hands and moves the veilfire onto it. “Hold it here.”

Cassandra looks out at the towering natural stone pillars that give the Weeping Spires its name while Dorian copies the ghostly runes into his notebook. “As soon as he’s done, we’re moving. I see the keep and the road is clear.”

“But no Avvar,” Sera says. “Weird, right? Thought they wanted to fight you.”

They soon learn why the Avvar are spread so thinly across the bog. They walk past the abandoned houses at the Weeping Spires, searching the wet shadows and murky waters for an ambush. No Avvar ever emerges from the dark but when Maxwell steps onto a narrow strip of land connecting Hargrave Keep to the rest of the bog, a corpse lurches out of the waters. It tumbles back into the lake, an arrow sticking out of its head. The lake churns and more corpses shuffle out onto land.

Vibrant green washes over them as Maxwell hefts his greatsword and Sera says, “Can’t you _say_ something before you do that?”

“No,” Dorian replies cheerfully and promptly sends a fireball at three shambling corpses with a flourish.

“Ugh, mages.” Sera notches an arrow and dances out of the way of a swinging rusted sword. “Can’t catch me!” She lets the arrow fly. “Eat it!”

Maxwell kicks the staggered body, sending it crashing into another with such force that they both go down in pieces.

“Ate it!” Sera laughs and darts away while grabbing another arrow from her quiver.

Skeletons and gray corpses keep hauling themselves out of the lake. Every time Maxwell dismembers one, two more take its place. They come in a relentless wave, crowding the path and obscuring the way. Maxwell almost loses sight of the others while trying to avoid the swords and axes swinging wildly at him. He forces the undead back with a sweep of his greatsword, knocking them off their feet. Dorian immolates the survivors.

“How many are there?” Maxwell wonders despairingly when more crawl out of the lake.

“Too many,” Cassandra says. She bashes two corpses with her shield and then points to the keep’s open gate with her sword. “We can’t fight them all. Retreat to the keep and shut the gate.”

They run. Cassandra bulls her way through the horde and Maxwell knocks aside the flankers with his sword pommel. They sprint through the gate and Dorian raises a wall of flame to keep the undead at bay. One promptly tries to walk through the fire but Sera fires an arrow at the burning corpse, sending it staggering back into its companions.

Maxwell looks up at the locked gate and then around the keep’s courtyard for the lever. He finds instead a trio of startled Avvar, one sitting behind a barricade of old crates and two looking down from the wooden walkway up to the ramparts.

“We have company,” he says loudly.

“ _Kaffas_ ,” Dorian mutters and quickly casts a barrier right as the bowmen on the walkway loose their arrows.

“But where’s the lever?” Maxwell asks while dodging another arrow.

“It must be on the battlements,” Cassandra says behind her raised shield. “Sera, shut the gate before the dead get through.”

“Right, right, I’m on it, Lady Bossypants!”

She leaps up the stairs and darts around the bowmen, tripping one for good measure and jabbing another in the thigh. Cassandra chargers the Avvar warrior on the ground, blocking his greataxe and slicing his leg before being shoved back. Maxwell flanks the warrior, swinging hard at the man’s exposed side; ribs crack and the Avvar roars in pain, lashing out with his axe and forcing Maxwell aside. An arrow bounces off his pauldron and Maxwell looks up to flinch away from the arrow aimed at his face.

The keep’s gate screeches shut. Sera cackles and the bowman notching another arrow suddenly curses and drops his bow. He grabs at the arrow sticking out of his shoulder and turns around as Sera leaps from the battlements onto his shoulders. She shoves an arrow into his neck; blood sprays from the wound as he staggers, grabbing uselessly at her and the arrow shaft before sinking to his knees. The other archer tries to attack but she pins her wrist to the railing with another arrow. Sera yelps when Dorian throws a bright fireball up at the Avvar.

“Watch it!” she snaps and he salutes her in response.

Meanwhile, Maxwell and Cassandra continue harassing the Avvar warrior, wearing him down. They dodge the swinging greataxe or deflect the sharp edges, dart in whenever he leaves an opening for a quick jab or pommel strike. The Avvar, bleeding profusely from wounds all over his body and wheezing thanks to his broken ribs, gnashes his teeth and abruptly charges Maxwell. The man stumbles when Dorian slings out a bolt of energy, thrown off-stride, and that ends up being his undoing. Cassandra comes up to him and sinks her blade into his back. The warrior falls to the ground.

“Dead,” she mutters and yanks her bloodied longsword out.

Maxwell wipes blood and rain off his face and looks up at the battlements at the telltale sound of a lock being picked.

“What is she doing?” Cassandra asks.

“Picking a lock?” he says and then winces when the side of his face stings.

The Seeker sighs and heads up the walkway. “She’s wasting our time. Stay here and keep watch while I-”

“Not until I jimmy it!” Sera shouts. “Stay back!”

Cassandra rolls her eyes while climbing the wooden steps. Maxwell watches her but hears the unmistakable sound of something being set on fire and turns around. Dorian steps back from the gate, satisfied with the burning corpses trying to grab him through the iron bars. At their feet are more burning bodies, the dead blackening beyond recognition.

“Overkill, don’t you think?” Maxwell asks.

“Only if you weren’t stuck in camp for several days surrounded by soldiers who flinched every time you offered to light the fire. Couldn’t wiggle my little finger without them reaching for their swords.”

He sighs inwardly. “I’ll talk to them.”

Above, Sera makes a triumphant sound and flings a door open. “See? If it’s locked, something good’s hiding behind it.”

“All I see are crates and moldy books,” Cassandra says flatly. Then, “Fine. Three minutes, then I’m dragging you out.”

“You’re never any fun.”

Maxwell huffs a laugh at Cassandra’s indignant sound while Sera trashes whatever storeroom she broke into. He turns to tell Dorian about Sera’s nimble fingers, and Dorian’s standing much closer than he remembers, looking concerned. “What is it?”

Dorian raises his hand as if to touch Maxwell’s face and the laughter stills at the back of his throat. The mage then changes his mind and gestures at his own face.

“You’re bleeding a bit right here. Must’ve happened during the fight with these barbarians.”

“Avvar. And that explains it.” Maxwell pulls a bloodstained glove off to carefully probe his cheek. He grimaces when he finds the graze. Maybe Vivienne is right and he should invest in a helm. “Can you heal it?”

“Ah,” and Dorian actually looks embarrassed. “Afraid not. Healing spells are not part of my repertoire. Never really had the temperament for it.”

“Really? If I was a mage, I’d learn a few healing spells. Everyone could use them.”

“I know a fair bit about inducing fear in others. And time magic, which was just a theory until several weeks ago. Also, barrier spells. My opponents are supposed to be dead by the time they wear off. I should’ve noticed it fade away during the fight.”

Maxwell frowns. “This isn’t your fault-”

“Guess what I found!” Sera bounds down the stairs ahead of Cassandra, waiting around a large book. “It’s full of words and pictures about Grey Wardens. I’m giving it to Blackwall.”

“He doesn’t seem the sort to read,” Dorian says skeptically. “I’m not even sure he knows _how_ to.”

“Who cares? He’s always going on and on about the Wardens so he’ll be happy to have this.” She tucks it under her arm, then has second thoughts and stashes it in an old crate sitting under the walkway, far away from the carnage that left other crates in splinters. “Remind me to pick it up later.”

Cassandra rolls her eyes and points up the path to the keep’s main courtyard. “I spotted the camp but couldn’t count the numbers. If our soldiers were there, I couldn’t see. The Avvar don’t seem to know we’re here so we have the advantage, but be cautious. This Hand of Korth’s been waiting to fight you. There’s no telling what he might do to force it.”

* * *

The Hand of Korth is a towering man crowned with a leather helm and ram horns. Upon seeing Maxwell at the entryway to the keep’s roofless hall, he raises his great maul with both hands and armed Avvar warriors pour into the ruins while bowmen standing behind him notch arrows.

“Aw piss,” Sera grumbles and pivots around the nearest warrior to jab him behind the thigh with an arrow.

“Should’ve brought a basket of fruit,” Dorian remarks while blasting fire at the nearest Avvar warrior’s face. “Would’ve given him pause at the very least.”

Maxwell snorts at the thought. “He’d probably throw the apples at us.”

He cuts down an Avvar trying to strike Dorian from behind and knocks aside another attempting to flank Cassandra. Dorian freezes the Avvar woman in ice and unleashes lightning on the others in the narrow hall. Sera picks off two of the stunned Avvar and then aims at the Hand of Korth. Her arrow sinks into his shoulder but he only bellows and rips it out.

“Rather dramatic, isn’t he?” Dorian says. He casts fiery glyphs and two Avvar axemen immediately step on one, setting off a fiery explosion that lights up the gloomy setting.

“The horns are a nice touch,” Maxwell agrees while blocking an Avvar’s axe and shoving her into Cassandra’s longsword. “Not as impressive as Bull’s, though.”

He slashes another Avvar and grimaces when hot blood splatters all over his face. Dorian suddenly grabs his arm and hauls him out of the Hand’s way. The man’s maul cracks the stone where Maxwell was standing and sparks fly. The Avvar leader turns on Maxwell with all the grace of a charging druffalo and raises his maul; Maxwell jumps back at the first swing and blocks the second with his sword. His knees buckle under the Hand’s weight but he grits his teeth and pushes back.

Cassandra slams into the Hand’s side and holds fast when he turns on her with his maul. Maxwell staggers away from them, breathing hard, arms shaking badly. Dorian pushes him aside and summons a barrier before throwing fire at the Hand’s feet.

Sera leaps onto a crippled bowman’s shoulders and fires two arrows at the Hand before breaking the archer’s neck; one glances off the great ram horns and the other scrapes his arm. The Hand doesn’t notice and continues attacking Cassandra, hammering at her shield with his maul and backing her into the wall.

“Come on!” Sera growls, then spins on the balls of her feet and stabs an Avvar in the eye with her arrow. She jerks back at the last second to avoid an arrow fired from the dais.

“Sera!” Maxwell points to the steps at the end of the hall and the two bowmen standing on the dais, notching arrows. “Take them out!”

“I know, I know!” she yells back and sticks an arrow in the man sneaking up on him before running off.

Maxwell turns and cuts the man down, then ducks under a woman’s axe and slams the pommel into her side, cracking ribs. She stumbles, catches herself, and lashes out at him. Her axe glances off the breastplate, the closest anyone’s come to touching him. Cold fear and sudden hot rage block her next attack, break her axe, and take off her head. 

At the other end of the roofless hall, Sera puts an arrow in the second archer’s neck, leaving the Hand of Korth the last one standing.

Maxwell lunges at the man’s exposed side. The warrior turns at the last second and swings the maul at his head. He twists away, hitting the ground hard; Cassandra runs in and slices the back of the Hand’s knee, crippling it. He yells and throws her across the hall.

“Cassandra!” Maxwell shouts and runs to her side. He doesn’t make it; the Hand’s maul comes down in front of him and he stumbles back to avoid the fatal blow. The maul pulverizes stone instead.

Sera leaps into the fray and fires an arrow into the Hand’s thigh. The Avvar grunts and pulls it out, smears blood all over his armor before lunging at her. Dorian summons another energy salvo that the Hand can’t shrug off and the man falls to both knees. He still blocks Maxwell’s greatsword with the maul’s heavy wooden shaft and grins bloodily as Maxwell staggers back from the impact.

“So that shaman was right,” the Hand says. “You’re just a northerner but even the Mountain-Father shows you favor.”

“Where are my soldiers?” Maxwell demands. “What did you do to them?”

“They’re locked away. Unharmed. It’s you I wanted to face. More glory from defeating your god’s chosen than those Tevinter invaders.”

“Rude,” Dorian says.

Maxwell takes another step forward, eyes never leaving the Hand’s. “I’m here now, but my fight isn’t with you. Tell us where they are and I’ll let you go.”

“Herald,” Cassandra begins.

“They’re here, somewhere,” the Hand says, “and I still breathe, _Herald_.”

He launches himself at Maxwell with a roar, maul held high. A barrier wraps around Maxwell as he jumps out of the way and Dorian flings a bolt of energy at the Hand, halting his momentum. The Hand turns on the mage, teeth bared, and stops again when Sera’s arrow sinks in between his ribs. He snaps off the shaft and braces himself against Cassandra’s strike. He shoulders her aside and then blocks Maxwell’s greatsword. 

Maxwell is the stronger of the two now, unhindered by injury and angry. He pushes the Hand back and swings again, his sword cutting through leather, flesh, and bone. The Avvar warrior shouts while his right hand drops to the ground and throws a wild punch at Maxwell with the other; Maxwell ducks and then throws all of his weight and momentum into his greatsword as he brings it down on the crown of ram horns. The Hand drops like a wet sack.

Breathing hard, Maxwell lifts his sword and stares at the bent steel.

“Remind me not to get on your bad side,” Dorian says faintly.

“Sure,” Maxwell replies with a nervous laugh. He drops the ruined blade to rake a shaking hand through his soaked hair. “Harritt’s going to kill me. Said he would if he had to forge me another.”

“ _Another_?”

“We need to find our men,” Cassandra says while wiping blood and mud from her face. “If they’re here, they must be locked away somewhere - what are you doing?”

Sera looks up while going through the pouches on the Hand’s leather belt. “What? He’s dead. He’s not going to miss this.”

She holds up a rusted key and Cassandra snatches it. They go to the first door they see but the key doesn’t fit and no one responds to the pounding on the door. The next one yields nothing but they hear muffled noise from another door. She knocks on it and someone knocks back. Quickly, she unlocks the door and flings it open.

“Thank the Maker, a friendly face at last,” a soldier rasps from the back of a dimly lit moldy storage room. “Thought those bastards were going to keep us in here forever.”

Cassandra counts heads while the soldiers slowly mobilize, helping each other to their feet and picking up their gear. A few are injured, limbs bound with torn strips of cloth, but nobody appears to be deathly ill; in fact, they’re all in fine spirits knowing that the Inquisition saved them.

“They’re all here,” she says softly, relieved.

“Are you all right?” Maxwell asks the nearest soldier and the entire room slowly turns to stare at him.

“Herald?” someone says wonderingly. “He’s here?”

“He actually came for us,” another soldier whispers too loudly.

“We’re all right, ser,” says the soldier he asked. “Better, actually, now that you sprung us from this blasted keep.”

Maxwell shifts awkwardly, feeling cornered by the weight of their surprise and awe. “I….” And now Cassandra’s looking at him, too. “I’m glad you’re all safe. There’s a camp at the Misty Grove. Can you walk?”

“Yes,” an elf says and pats her bandaged arm. “Don’t worry about us, Herald.”

They emerge to find carnage in the ruined keep, the bodies of their captors lying all over the ground and bleeding into the mud and grass. Someone mutters darkly about the rain and nearly everyone concurs with their own murmurs and curses as they carefully step around the bodies. Everyone pulls up short at the silhouette of a tall stout Avvar warrior standing on top of the keep’s steps. Maxwell reaches for his greatsword and then realizes it’s the Sky Watcher from Old Thoroughfare. He gestures for Sera to lower her bow and for Dorian to dismiss his magic, and slowly approaches the man.

“So you defeated Movran’s brat,” the Sky Watcher says by way of greeting.

“I did.” He straightens himself, holds his head high. “What of it?”

“Like your Andraste, the Lady and now the Mountain-Father favor you. They have even sent the dead back into slumber, clearing your path through these lands. They are all signs that I cannot ignore.” The Sky Watcher looks up at the clouded firmament and then at Maxwell’s left hand. “The Lady led me to you and I cannot ignore her will. I wish to join your Inquisition.”


	3. threnodies 5: stand upon the precipice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of headcanoning here. I want Fiona to have an actual role and say in what happens next... and she won't be the only one.

The first questions are harmless.

The trek back to Haven is slower because of the injured soldiers and the inclement weather, and yet it is remarkably uneventful. Maxwell reconsiders his first impressions of the Sky Watcher’s claims about the Lady of the Skies; he can’t ignore the lack of highwaymen, roaming dangerous wildlife, or even rifts. The road is so quiet that the Iron Bull starts muttering about a desire for something fun and catastrophic to happen to break up the boredom, earning Cassandra’s ire.

Maxwell chooses a more productive approach. He slows his mount’s pace and the Bog Unicorn takes that as its cue to draw even with the mage sitting rather stiffly in his saddle, frowning mightily at an apostate’s paranoid ramblings in a weatherworn book.

“Can I ask you something about Tevinter?”

“Again?” Dorian asks. He finally peels his eyes away from the pages of Widris’s journal to look at Maxwell. “I’m starting to think you were supposed to be taught the scholarly arts but lost your way.”

“You’re not wrong.” Once he dreamed of following in Brother Genitivi’s wandering footsteps but the family’s standing always came first, for whatever good it ultimately did. “Unless bandits decide to ambush us right this minute, I have nothing better to do.”

“Fair enough. Ask away.”

* * *

The air is colder now that they’re in the Frostbacks and patches of snow cover the hard ground. Maxwell curls up in his cloak while reading Sister Petrine’s book under a stand of scraggly pines near camp. The Bog Unicorn lingers nearby on a loose rein, watching with unseeing eyes. No steam rises from its flanks or bony nostrils, a reminder that it isn't naturally of this world.

"I've seen some real deep shit," Varric says somewhere to Maxwell's right, "but that? That's just wrong."

Maxwell nods absentmindedly. He glances at Varric when the dwarf sits next to him with a bottle in hand. Varric looks odd without Bianca over his shoulder. Smaller, maybe. Vulnerable.

"Drink?" Varric holds out the bottle.

He shuts the book and takes it. A familiar sweet clean flavor fills his mouth and he stares at the bottle in surprise.

“Where did you-”

“Had Ruffles put in an order a while back. You and me, we didn’t sign up for this shit.” Varric points at the Breach swirling high in the sky and then at the bustling camp down below. “We need the things that remind us of home a little more than everybody else.”

“Like whatever passes for ale at the Hanged Man?” Maxwell asks wryly.

“It really does taste like rat piss,” Varric sighs, “and I miss it.”

Maxwell sips from the unmarked bottle. Varric’s right; it does taste like home, like briny air and brisk mountain wind. He passes the bottle back reluctantly.

“I gotta hand it to you Ostwickians - never would’ve thought to use rice. Packs a punch, too, once you let it settle.”

“Supposedly, there was a shortage of wheat one year and nobody wanted to ship in Tevinter wine. They didn’t want to go without drink for a whole year either, so they experimented with whatever they did harvest. Rice won. Then Brother Benson started lecturing me on the evils of drink.”

Varric chuckles. “What was it people say? ‘Necessity is the mother of invention’?”

“So is the price.”

They pass the bottle between them while watching activity down in camp. If Maxwell squints, he can make out the Iron Bull’s giant horns moving among the tents. The person on one of the lower branches of a tree in the middle of the camp must be Sera and that might be Blackwall tending to the horses. A black bird suddenly takes flight from the camp; it must be one of Leliana’s ravens, carrying a message from Cassandra back to Haven. He follows its trajectory until it disappears and then raises his gaze to the Breach. He clenches his left hand and the mark pulses.

“Nervous?” Varric asks. “It’s okay if you are. I won’t say a word.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he says. “Last time I was there, I almost died.”

Leliana’s raven came a day earlier, telling him and Cassandra that the lyrium shipment had arrived. Once he’s back in Haven, Solas and Fiona will whisk him away to begin final preparations to seal the Breach. And after that….

“You’ve been pretty quiet the last couple days,” Varric says and his back straightens at the tone. “Didn’t catch anything while we were knee-deep in bog water and dead bodies, did you?”

“I’m fine, Varric.”

“No, you’re not.”

He sighs, knowing Varric isn’t going to let it go. “The Hand of Korth took a whole company of soldiers prisoner because of _me_. People wanted _me_ to choose between accepting Fiona’s invitation and chasing Lord Seeker Lucius, and you remember what happened with Mother Hevara. All because I have this mark, this… key to closing the Breach. If I didn’t have it, I’d just be another Ostwickian.”

“You’d also be dead,” Varric says.

He laughs once, harshly. “There’s that.” He stares at the bottle, contemplating, thinking about how it all began. “I only came to Haven because I wasn't a mage or a templar, just a younger son of an Ostwickian bann."

“You… went to the Conclave because you didn’t have a bone in the fight.”

“I didn't, but my family did.” He draws absentmindedly on his right knee with a finger, thoughts thrown into the past. “Still do. Did I ever tell you? My sister killed her own knight-commander to save the mages. My brother joined the mage rebellion because he didn't believe in the Chantry anymore. They all had something to lose.”

“So you came here because you wanted to save them,” Varric says. "That's... noble of you."

He smiles tightly. “The Divine wanted to make life better for the mages. And the things Hilly and Oswald told me about the Order made me think she could change things for the templars, too. So I thought if I went, I could use my name to help my revered mother. She knew how to persuade people. Wish we had the chance.”

“Well, you swayed plenty of people’s opinions on mages or did you forget what happened at Redcliffe?”

Maxwell laughs hollowly. “How could I forget?”

“Right.” Varric takes a pull from the bottle. “Is that why you go wandering out late at night? Need to take off a load by blowing shit up with Sparkler?”

He doesn’t want to talk about Dorian right now so he just says, “It helps me sleep.”

“Huh. Well, whatever works.” Varric hums thoughtfully and Maxwell thinks he’s safe. “So what was that fight about?”

He flinches. “It’s a disagreement.”

“Sounded intense. About what?”

Maxwell hesitates. “Slavery.”

Varric arches an eyebrow so high it creases his forehead and huffs disbelievingly. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“How did you even manage?”

He shrugs. “Wanted to know which things I heard about Tevinter were true and which weren't. Think I was asking about the differences between the Imperial Chantry and Circle and ours....” He still can’t understand how the question-and-answer session devolved so rapidly. “I don't understand how they justify it every single day. How normal they think it is to sell yourself into slavery just to survive. How do they live with it?”

“Not the person to ask. I’d suggest talking to Broody but he’s not here and he’d probably just go rip out Sparkler’s heart instead. We don't want that.”

“He'd have answers,” Maxwell says, “because I don’t. I know it’s better to be free, to have choice, but it’s not like the alienages are any better. I've been to one. They're... I don't know how they… I don’t know.”

“So what did you say?”

“Go talk to Sera because I don’t know. Then I left.” He didn’t, actually, since he’s on horseback but his demonic beast knew to carry him away from the brewing tension. He holds his hand out and Varric puts the bottle in it. “Mother Edith would be so proud.”

“Your revered mother?”

His head feels heavy but he drinks anyway, several large gulps with pauses in between to let the sweet rice liquor burn down his throat. “Only person with the 'gall' to shame my father and a host of nobles so loudly and publicly for refusing to help the alienage and Ferelden refugees. She took over the chantry several years ago and, well, you could say she wasn’t popular with them. She thought the nobles could afford to be more charitable and said so.” He starts drawing circles on his knee again. “She thought I could do some real good serving the Maker as a Chantry brother. She was one of the better people in Ostwick.”

“Was?”

The last time Maxwell saw her was the morning of the Conclave. She told him she saw his older brother late last night, that Edmund wished to talk to a familiar face about the choices he made since the Ostwick Circle fell and he went south to join the mage rebellion. He wanted to upend the current order and start from scratch while she wanted to reform what was already in place, but they both hoped the Conclave could provide answers and end the war.

“We went to the temple that morning,” Maxwell says quietly. “Then I… guess I wandered off….”

There’s nothing else to say. Varric clasps a hand on his shoulder and squeezes once. “I’m sorry.”

* * *

Haven is chaos.

The wooden walls barely contain the anxious hope housed within. Leliana’s people stream in and out at all hours, carrying messages in every direction; refugees and locals point and whisper at the mages, at the crates of blue lyrium stacked in the village square and kept under heavy guard, at the strange group of people gathering around the mark on the Herald’s left hand. Fiona’s mages and the ex-templars under Cullen’s command maintain their uneasy truce, both more eager to see the Breach gone than to prove who really won the war.

Not one day after returning to Haven, Solas and Fiona take Maxwell and several senior enchanters up to the temple grounds. Soldiers and hired dwarves are chipping away the red lyrium and moving them elsewhere but the work is too slow and all he hears is the eerie song while walking past scorched rubble and still-burning corpses. It prickles under his skin, in his mouth and his lungs, and he spends the next several days avoiding everyone, choosing instead to wander around Haven’s outskirts on his own with only the wild rams for company.

Nights are worse. He can’t sleep, afraid of what he might find, but he doesn’t leave the cabin. He doesn’t know who he’ll run into and so has nowhere to go but inside his head. 

The morning after a second visit to the temple ruins, Maxwell wakes slowly to tentative knocking on the cabin door and an agent’s equally tentative inquiries.

“Herald? Ser? Your presence is requested at the chantry.”

He untangles himself from the mess of blankets on the floor and staggers to the door. The agent stares at him. “Are you all right, ser?”

“I’m fine.” He resists yawning or rubbing his dry eyes. “You said the chantry?”

He passes by Leliana and Chancellor Roderick on the way. The chancellor apparently caught her before she could go the chantry. Maxwell slows his stride, half-listening, wondering what else the man intended to harangue her with.

“But what happened?” Chancellor Roderick is asking. “Where did they all go?”

“We don’t know,” Leliana says patiently while shuffling the papers in her hands. “I gave the command to enter Therinfal to investigate. If I hear anything, you’ll be the first to know.” She glances up and notices Maxwell lingering. “Excuse me, Chancellor.”

The chancellor steps aside while she quickly crosses the village square to join Maxwell. He shakes his head and heads down the steps, disappearing from view.

“What was that all about?” Maxwell asks.

“Therinfal Redoubt,” she says. “I told him I ordered my scouts to create a distraction so that the Chargers can slip in and investigate.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” he says. 

“No, it doesn’t. If the templars are compromised just like the mages were….”

Cassandra, Josephine, and Cullen are already inside, standing around the long table and staring at Josephine’s map. Something wrapped tightly in oilskin leans against the wall while a stack of scrolls and letters sits near Josephine’s elbow. 

“Ah, Herald,” the diplomat says upon spotting him. Her eyebrow quirks. “Are you all right?”

He sighs but still drags a hand through his hair just in case. “Yes, I’m fine. What is it?”

The others glance at each other and then Cullen speaks. “Sister Dorcas sent us Tyrdda Bright-Axe’s axe. It’s… not an axe.”

“It’s not?”

“It’s a staff,” Leliana says. “Tyrdda Bright-Axe was apparently a mage. It’s quite magnificent for something that was buried in the wilderness for centuries. Perhaps one of our allies can find some use for it.”

He glances skeptically at the wrapped staff. “I’ll ask around.”

Josephine clears her throat delicately and slides a letter to the center of the table. “Vivienne gave this to me. Rumors and gossip among Orlesian nobles about the Inquisition. If we do nothing, this could cause trouble for us in the future.”

“What are they saying?” Cassandra asks.

“That the Breach, the destruction of the Conclave and the Temple, all happened on the Divine’s orders. That this was done to eliminate the leaders of the mage rebellion and templars and silence opposition within the Chantry.”

“They think Divine Justinia did all this to take power?” Cassandra glowers at the letter. “They think she’s still alive.”

"I'll handle it," Leliana says.

"And this one," Josephine says, sliding another letter across, "is from the Iron Bull. A Ben-Hassrath report about Lydes. It has been without a ruler since Duke Remache died at the beginning of the civil war.”

Maxwell skims the letter and looks up at her patient face. “How important is this?”

“It’s about building alliances,” Josephine explains. “We will need them in order to affect change. Lydes is a powerful duchy. We should consider which of the three claimants to pursue and how to discreetly remove the other two from play.”

“But do we have to decide now?”

“He has a point,” Cullen says. "We have the Breach and the missing templars to deal with."

“Of course you’d side with him,” Leliana says. She takes the letter from Maxwell and reads it. “Duchess Caralina is capable but only cares about the prestige of ruling Lydes. Monette is young and inexperienced in the Game but easier to manipulate. Jean-Gaspard is a chevalier with desire for power and a code of honor. Which of the three should we court?”

“None of them are good candidates,” Cassandra says. “Let’s return to that later. We have something else to discuss. Have you anything on Therinfal?”

Leliana folds the letter and hands it back to Josephine. “Roderick is asking questions. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to redirect him."

“What does that mean?” Maxwell asks. 

Leliana smiles wryly at him. “I wasn’t entirely truthful to him because I didn’t trust him to keep his mouth shut. I heard from Lieutenant Cremisius earlier this morning. They’re due back in two days if you want details, Cassandra.”

“What did the Chargers find?” the Seeker demands.

“It’s worse than we thought.”

“Leliana.”

She pulls out and tosses a folded missive onto the table. “Red lyrium and bodies. All templars, all executed. Their bodies were showing signs of severe illness. Many more left Therinfal under their own power to join with a larger force. The Chargers lost the trail a few miles out.”

“Red lyrium?” Maxwell glances between them. “When Dorian and I went to the future, we found it all throughout Redcliffe Castle. How did it show up at Therinfal? Venatori couldn’t have done that.”

“They found traces of powerful magic,” Leliana says, "but no mages."

“There was red lyrium on the temple grounds,” Cassandra says. “Red lyrium at Redcliffe Castle in the future and now Therinfal… is this also the work of the Elder One? Were there agents among the templars? Who would….” Her frown deepens. “Lucius summoned the whole Order to Therinfal. This wasn’t just to spite the Chantry. Could he be involved in this? In the Divine’s death and the Breach?”

“My agents are searching for him,” Leliana says. “When we find him, you can ask.”

“I intend to.”

Cullen shakes his head. “I don't understand. What were they doing with it? Didn’t they know what happened to Meredith?”

“Cremisius’s report suggests they ingested it,” Leliana says, earning a horrified look from the former templar. “They found red lyrium growing out of the mouths and stomachs.”

Josephine pales. Maxwell’s stomach churns at the thought. He remembers the former Grand Enchanter leaning against the wall of her cell, encased in red lyrium, wheezing through pain to tell him what had happened in the year since he vanished. Did the Venatori feed her red lyrium to make it grow from her body? Was that going to be Cassandra and Varric’s ultimate fate?

“Regular lyrium is already dangerous to handle,” Cullen says doubtfully. “What could they possibly gain from red lyrium to risk becoming another Meredith?”

No one has an answer. Cassandra sighs. “Worry about the Breach first. Then we’ll discuss what to do about Therinfal.” She surveys the map. “Anything else?”

“I sent letters to Lady Buttlefort and Prince Sebastian, and called in a few favors,” Josephine says. “We should receive sovereigns soon to pay for wages and supplies.”

“And my agents are securing the roads in southern Ferelden,” Leliana says. “After the Breach, we need to discuss what to prioritize next. I know we’re all worried about the missing templars and the Chantry, but this Elder One is what concerns me. We don’t know who they are, how they created the Breach, or what they want. Right now, our best assets are Magister Alexius and the Herald’s report about the future. I’ll interrogate Alexius about what happened at the Conclave.”

“I don’t think he knows anything about it,” Maxwell replies. “All he cared about was saving his son but time magic wouldn’t take him back to a time before the Breach and in the future Felix dies anyway. Dorian thinks that’s all the Venatori wanted from him. They had no reason to tell him more.”

“Then the sooner we close the Breach, the better,” Cullen says. “If they wanted him for this time magic, then he could’ve showed them how to use it and I don’t like the idea of them manipulating the Inquisition without our knowledge.”

Maxwell leaves the meeting room with the oilskin bundle in hand. He slowly unwraps it from the staff’s head and stares at the dirt-crusted twisting serpent heads holding a fiery focus stone in between their mouths. He looks up when someone approaches and dips his head in greeting to Madame de Fer.

“That is a very old stave,” Vivienne remarks. “Where did it come from?”

“The Hinterlands,” he says. “It’s Tyrdda Bright-Axe’s… axe. Scholars have been interpreting her epic incorrectly for years, thinking it was a... it's an Avvar relic.” He looks down at the staff’s focus stone. “I’m… not sure what I should do with this. Do you?”

“Send it off to a museum or a reputable collector,” she says. “They’ll find better use for it than anyone here will. I can still feel its magic but you wouldn’t trust a sword that was buried under a mountain for hundreds of years to hold up in battle, would you? 

“No, I suppose not.”

“Exactly my point." She considers the meeting room's current occupants. "Have you decided what to do about the ridiculous rumors about the former Divine?"

"Leliana is looking into it." He can't imagine how she plans to - actually, he can.

Vivienne smirks. "I look forward to seeing how she silences the nonsense once and for all. I'll see you tomorrow morning, Herald."

Tomorrow? He abruptly remembers the brief words Solas passed to him while he was heading out to the forest yesterday. All of the most experienced and powerful mages will be gathering tomorrow morning to begin final preparations, including her and Dorian. "Right, tomorrow."

The court enchanter looks at him oddly before leaving him to his muddled thoughts about an argument and a very old Avvar staff in his hands.

* * *

“Then it’s settled,” Cassandra says, eyeballing the massive magical calamity overhead. “The Breach will be closed the day after tomorrow.”

Murmurs ripple through the group of mages and soldiers standing around the crater, the Breach’s epicenter. Anticipation and anxiety electrify the air and bear down on Maxwell, who’s standing at the same spot where he faced a towering prideful demon and nearly died stopping the Breach from growing. He looks down at his left hand, trying to breathe because the pressure is stifling, and tastes magic on his tongue. There are no more red lyrium spires, broken apart and carted away to prevent interference, but the eerie hum fills his head and weaves through Cassandra’s words. 

Nobody wants to stay here for longer than necessary and quickly leave the place. The tormented bodies are haunting enough but some of the mages complained about feeling ill and lightheaded, said they could feel the traces of red lyrium still embedded in the ground. Even Vivienne looks relieved to leave the temple grounds.

Maxwell keeps rubbing his temples while following the others down the road through the mountains, wanting the song to stop. Soldiers are still clearing away the rubble and he remembers the burning debris, the wreckage and the bodies littering the path as he stumbled after Cassandra while the sky boiled and burst.

“Are you all right?” someone asks; it’s Dorian. He’s terribly pale, with strands of black hair sticking to his damp forehead. He looks worse off than the others but he’s also the only other person who wandered through a Redcliffe Castle overgrown with lyrium.

Maxwell shakes his head, afraid to speak. His mouth is dry and the song in his head is turning into an incessant pounding headache. He can’t remember why they stopped talking after coming back to Haven. 

“It’ll be over soon,” Dorian says helpfully. “Just… stay away from red lyrium for a while.”

“It was never this bad,” he finally says, digging fingers into his temples to relieve pressure.

“Lyrium is dangerous and we spent hours surrounded by it. I’m not surprised, but you’re not a mage. It shouldn’t affect you like this.”

“How sensitive are mages to it?”

“On a bad day, just being next to the raw stuff will kill you,” Dorian says. “Incredible that the enchanter held out for as long as she did.”

Maxwell looks ahead, searching for the former Grand Enchanter’s regal bearing in the crowd. If what Dorian says is true -which it probably is - how did she survive for a year? What did it take to outlast the lyrium growing inside her?

Leliana is standing by the armory, talking with Krem and the other Chargers while they remove their packs from the backs of weary horses. Cassandra immediately breaks away to join and even Cullen is leaving the soldiers’ camp, undoubtedly to ask about Therinfal Redoubt. It seems like a futile attempt to find hope for the templars; red lyrium at Therinfal, growing from templar corpses, was a sure sign of horrors committed within the Order.

Could any of this have been prevented? It is impossible to ignore the timing of their disappearance, as if the Venatori had timed their takeover of the mage rebellion to coincide with whatever happened to the templars. And what if someone had interfered the way Maxwell had?

“What if I went to Therinfal instead?” he asks. “Would that have changed anything?”

“Afraid I can’t answer that,” Dorian says. “It’s a shame to lose so many people under strange circumstances… but I couldn’t have stopped Alexius without you. And your Inquisition.”

“I know, but if we sent someone there, if we sent Cullen or Josephine or-”

“But we didn’t,” Vivienne says behind them. “You made a decision and this is a consequence of it. To be an effective leader, you must learn to live with it Learn to live with it if you want to be an effective leader.”

“But I’m not. I’m just the Herald because of this mark.”

How can he live with the knowledge that he might’ve doomed the entire Templar Order? He breathes sharply, rapidly, lungs trying to outpace his increasingly frenetic heart, and abruptly leaves Dorian and Vivienne behind with quick strides. He doesn’t look back or at the people calling out to him while skirting around the frozen lake and cresting a snowy hill.

He stumbles down the slope on the other side, spooking a pair of rams. He picks himself up and haphazardly brushes the snow from his trousers. He looks down at his hands; they’re red from the cold and shaking. The mark blazes brightly on his left palm. He clenches his left hand and then stumbles to the nearest tree, leans against its rough trunk and tries not to cry.

He doesn’t know how much time passed when Mother Giselle appears. The sun is hanging a little lower in the sky when he catches a glimpse of red wandering through the white. He immediately straightens when the revered mother appears, her robes hitched a few inches above the snow while she picks her way through uneven terrain. 

“Mother Giselle,” he calls out and trudges to her side. “What brings you here?”

“The Herald wasn’t among those returning from the temple grounds and so I asked about his whereabouts,” she replies. “I was told you were deeply troubled by news coming out of Therinfal Redoubt.”

“You didn’t have to come all the way out here for me,” he says, looking around the wooded area. He supposes the revered mother had braved worse in the Hinterlands but she shouldn’t have to on his account. “I can walk you back-”

“Haven can wait.” She looks around at the tall trees and the rams nibbling at the tender green shoots poking through the snow. Her gaze eventually turns to the Breach swirling in the mountains. “We were already living in precarious times, making difficult decisions in order to survive. You made the best possible choice given the circumstances. You shouldn’t punish yourself for it.”

“But I could’ve done more,” he says. “If I went there, if someone went there to talk to Lord Seeker Lucius-”

“The Lord Seeker chose to withdraw from a world that needed his help and took the templars with him. Fiona came to you to talk about closing the Breach. Did it not make more sense to go to Redcliffe?” Mother Giselle sways to a sudden cold wind coming down the mountainside. “If you had gone to Therinfal instead, the Venatori could have taken the mages and leave you asking yourself this very question.”

“That’s true,” he admits. There are so many other questions that were answered at Redcliffe. Would Therinfal have offered those same answers?

“There are things that are beyond anyone’s control. You are doing what you can with what you have to keep the world safe. The Maker will understand.” She pats his shoulder and then slowly turns him around to nudge him back to Haven. “There will be people who question the choices you made, but most will understand what it means to make the difficult decisions. They will not condemn you. How can they, when they have not seen what you’ve seen nor survived what you survived?”

“But I don’t even remember what happened,” Maxwell says.

“Perhaps you never will, but you have the mark. You have the means of closing the Breach and saving the world.” She looks up at the sky again but this time in the direction of the slowly setting sun. “Come, Herald. The Maker may have shielded me in troubled lands but He isn’t going to protect me from illness if I intentionally stay out in the mountains for too long.”

He follows the revered mother back to Haven, heart somewhat leavened by her words. But once they part way inside the wooden gates, guilt starts gnawing at him again and he walks to the SInging Maiden in a fugue. It takes Flissa calling his name twice to shake him loose from it and he asks her for food to take back to his cabin. Maryden is singing and the tavern is talking but he can’t hold onto a single word or melody.

“There you are,” someone says at his elbow. It’s Varric. “You… don’t look so good.”

Maxwell shrugs and looks away, kneading his temple. “What is it?”

“Just a bunch of people getting worried about you. I’ve seen this, you know. Seen what the hopes and expectations of a whole lot of people did to Hawke. Except he had Kirkwall to deal with and you… you have all of Thedas watching you close the Breach. Just don’t keep it all to yourself. If you need someone to talk to, you know where to find me.”

“Thank you,” he says quietly. 

“Hey, that’s what friends are for.”

He smiles weakly. “Friends, huh?”

“Yep.” Varric takes the pint Flissa sets in front of him. “These are strange times. Better hold onto the ones you find in case it all goes to shit.”

“So inspiring. Thanks, Varric. I appreciate it.”

He nearly collides with Solas while leaving the tavern and apologizes while side-stepping to let the apostate pass. Solas looks at him with something like pity and something small and hot flares in his chest; he quickly bids the elf a good night and goes back to his cabin. 

When Maxwell wakes hours later, jolting upright with a gasp and the fading impression of bright violence and searing pain in his left hand, the moons are high in the sky and vying with the Breach for brilliance. He pulls himself to the edge of the bed and wipes his face of sweat before burying it in shaking hands. Once the horror fades, he finds a dry shirt and picks up his new greatsword, forged from a bluish alloy soldiers found in the southern bog.

“Herald,” Sergeant Katarin says when he passes by on the way down to the gates. The others on patrol merely nod but he feels those hopes and expectations Varric spoke of in their gaze. He hopes he doesn’t disappoint them. 

The training ground is empty of even the straw dummies so he settles on memories of footwork and dances drilled into him by his trainer, the forms and stances that kept him alive these last few chaotic years. As he goes through the familiar motions, he remembers that Blackwall was teaching him the chevalier forms and almost wishes the Warden was here to spar with him.

He doesn’t know how long he was out here when he senses someone watching. He stops after blocking and deflecting an invisible opponent’s sword before breaking their jaw with the heavy pommel, lowers his sword, and turns around to face the mage standing just out of the sword’s reach.

“You look terrible,” Dorian says, naturally.

He shrugs, doesn’t look too closely at the tired lines on the mage’s face, the deep shadows under his eyes and his tensely held shoulders. “Can’t sleep.”

“I can imagine.” Dorian is leaning on his staff and looking all around them. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a match? You look like you need it.”

“Do I?” What does it say about him that he steps toward the mage without a second thought? He doesn’t miss the way Dorian’s eyes light up, either. “Let’s go.”

Leave it to Dorian to bring it up during the short hike through the snow.

“So where did you wander off to after your fit?” he asks. “Don’t think nobody noticed your vanishing act these days. The things I’ve been hearing….”

“Like what?” he asks a little coldly, defiantly.

Dorian looks taken aback but forges on. “They’re wondering whether you’re up to the task. If you have the fortitude to see this through. If not, you’ll be dooming us to live under the watchful eye of the Breach for the rest of our lives. Heard quite a few colorful comments about your house and the Marches, too.”

“Bet I heard worse growing up,” Maxwell says. 

Dorian glances at him oddly but doesn’t say more. They quietly make their way to the snowy clearing, breathing harshly from the hike and fogging the air overhead. Druffalo tracks cross the ground but they’re the only ones out here now. The mountainside is quiet and the Breach storms high above them, smothering the stars with its eerie glow.

“Maxwell,” Dorian calls out, the only warning.

The barrier settling on their shoulders is stronger and lasts longer, dismissing the increasingly powerful spells Dorian throws at Maxwell. He doesn’t hold back either, and hits harder and faster, puts all of his weight into each strike to drive Dorian into the ground. The air crackles with heat and magic, smells of lightning and sweat, as they dart in and out of each other’s range. Dorian resorts to an increasingly volatile chain of spells that might intimidate other warriors but Maxwell refuses to back away.

Something has to give on this brutal, volatile night. Dorian tries to push him back with a flashfire and the fading barrier doesn’t shield him from the heat. Startled, he leaps away from it like Dorian intended and reacts instinctively when the mage follows the spell with an electric salvo, throwing his left hand out like a shield.

The mark explodes. Something seizes him and _pulls_. His eyes widen as the mark rips into the Veil and then shut tightly when a rift bursts open with a bright green flash. The force of it throws him off his feet.

“Get back!” Dorian shouts over the unmistakable roar of a demon.

A new barrier washes over Maxwell as he scrambles to his feet and grabs his sword. Dorian is on the other side of the twisting rift, casting fire and lightning at the terror demons crowding around him. Maxwell charges at the spindly demons, bringing one down with his sword’s heavy pommel and then whirling around to break another in two. Dorian immolates another demon while he wipes ichor off his face.

“Send a signal!” Maxwell orders. “Warn the nightwatch and make sure the demons don’t get past the trees.”

A demon promptly tries to lose them in the forest but Dorian sets it on fire. He also sends a whole stand of pine up in flames.

“There’s your signal!” Dorian says and then freezes a demon in ice. He shatters it with his staff blade and then shocks a wraith.

More demons spill out of the rift, bright rageful demons and lesser shades. Dorian stuns them with a paralyzing chain of electricity but the rage demons recover swiftly and lash out with their own fire. He throws up a wall of ice and swings his staff at an opportunistic shade, knocking it into Maxwell’s swinging sword.

“So it _creates_ rifts, too,” Dorian says. “Makes sense. If the mark is a key, it should open doors as well as close them. Fascinating.”

“Be fascinated after I close the rift,” Maxwell says. He kicks aside another shade demon and gouges it; when he wrenches his sword back, ichor sprays all over him. “Why are there so many?”

“Just a thought but perhaps they were attracted to whatever you were feeling right when the mark tore a gaping hole in the Veil?”

Maxwell looks at the terror demons pulling themselves out of the rift and the bright forms slowly melting Dorian’s ice wall, and then at the blazing green line on his hand. “They can sense me-”

The wall breaks and Dorian shoves him away from burning claws reaching for his face. Instead they rake down the mage’s bare shoulder and Dorian stumbles back with a stifled cry, dropping his staff to press his hand against the bleeding wound. Furious, Maxwell shatters the ice with a heavy blow and brings his sword down on the rage demon’s head. It dies and he turns on another, following his momentum; the greatsword cuts the demon in half and blocks another’s spindly claws. Maxwell shoves the terror demon back with a kick and guts it. He watches its form collapse and then turns to lunge at the one approaching the stricken mage.

Arrows bury into the shade demon and Sergeant Katarin’s patrol bursts out of the dark. Another demon freezes in ice and the sergeant shatters it with her sword before joining another soldier in driving demons back toward the rift. Maxwell looks over his shoulder at Fiona, who nods to him and then casts a wide barrier to protect the soldiers.

Cullen appears, hair sticking up in all directions and hands clutching a longsword and training buckler. “Dear Maker, a rift? Here? I thought-”

“Speculate later, Commander,” Fiona says. “What do you need us to do, Herald?”

“Stop the demons,” Maxwell says. “I can’t get close enough to the rift to close it. And make sure nothing gets past the trees. Protect Haven.”

With the soldiers, Fiona, and Cullen falling on the demons, he runs to Dorian’s side. Dorian is trying to uncap a vial and failing so Maxwell takes it from his tacky hand to open. He hands it back, eyes on the red running down Dorian’s shoulder into the sleeve and the blackened edges around the gouges. He wants to say something but the words stick to the back of his throat.

“I’ll live, I promise,” Dorian says while he stands helplessly. “It’ll take more than a demon to bring me down.”

He laughs weakly. “Still. If I hadn’t-”

“You didn’t know. How could you? _I_ should’ve known how the mark might react. Should’ve remembered what we’re doing in two - should’ve - _kaffas_. Who knew we’d create enough power to rip the Veil?” Dorian tries to move his left arm and hisses in pain. “I’d hate to sit this one out but I’ll be more a hindrance than help right now.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him, Boss,” the Iron Bull announces as he, his Chargers, and a group of mages emerge from the trees. The mages look frazzled but the Chargers are all fully armed and bright-eyed despite the late hour.

“Wonderful,” Dorian mutters. “I suppose you’ll do.”

Maxwell picks up Dorian’s staff and glances at the slowly mending wound while handing it back to the mage. A few words unstick and he says, quietly, “This hurts me, too.”

Dorian stares at him, wondering, and he turns away before more fretful, useless words tumble out. He ignores the Iron Bull’s curious look and turns to Krem, who says, “Ready when you are, Herald.”

Maxwell sprints back into the clearing with Bull’s Chargers and immediately slams into a demon trying to claw Sergeant Katarin’s exposed back. Krem’s massive maul crushes its head and torso, and then bludgeons a nearby shade. The mages join Fiona and work in tandem to destroy the wraiths and wrathful fire demons, leaving the weaker shades for the soldiers to cut down. Slowly, they clear the area of demons; once Fiona traps the last one in ice and Sergeant Katarin guts it, Maxwell marches up to the pulsing rift and seals it shut.

He turns at the sounds of voices and boots in the snow. Cassandra and Leliana run into the clearing with a large company of soldiers. They halt the sight of the carnage, the remains of demons in the slush and the soldiers and mages looking each over for injuries. While Leliana goes to Sergeant Katarin and another officer for information, Cassandra disperses the soldiers to lend aid and jogs over to Maxwell, Fiona, and Cullen.

“What happened here?” she demands. “I wake to a commotion and a forest fire and word of a _rift_ opening right outside Haven.”

“We dealt with it,” Fiona replies calmly.

Leliana joins them, unstringing her ornate longbow as she speaks. “No rifts have appeared here since we first contained the Breach. Did something… ah.”

Cassandra follows her line of sight to Dorian, who’s getting his arm looked at by Stitches and looking miffed about it. Her eyes widen at the blood soaking his sleeve and then narrow before turning to Maxwell. “What were you two doing?”

He shrinks under her hard gaze. “It’s the mark. I… made a mistake and it reacted to Dorian’s magic. It opened a rift.”

“Is that so?” Fiona asks. “Solas speculated on the possibility but since we’re trying to close them, we didn’t test the theory.”

“And for good reason.” Cassandra surveys the damage, pausing to stare at the burning trees. “Do you realize what almost happened here? What you’ve done? Thank the Maker nobody died tonight but He might not be so kind to foolishness next time.”

“I know,” Maxwell says. “I’m sorry.”

Her expression softens. “At least nobody was seriously hurt. But no more of these… fights, Herald. We can _not_ afford a disaster while the Breach is still here.”

* * *

The trees are still smoldering the next day.

People point and ask but soldiers only tell them the official story - there was an incident involving a nightwatch fire. Leliana thought it best that nobody else knew what Maxwell was capable of doing. The last thing Haven needs right now is panic.

Solas learns the truth, of course. As soon as he’s told, he has Maxwell sit and show him the mark. The mark still glows brightly and flares when Solas holds his hand to study it. The air prickles thickly with magic.

“Dorian’s hypothesis may be the correct one,” the elf eventually says. “It corroborates the plan to have the mages provide the power you need to close the Breach. I did not expect the mark to _open_ one out of nothing, however. It fed off his magic and would have been capable of anything.” A pause. “Almost anything.”

“So this plan will work. I’ll survive.”

“Yes. The mages’ magic will act as a source of power instead of you.” Solas waves over his hand before letting it go and the mark settles to a green glimmer. “I’ve nullified the residual magic. You were incredibly lucky. The mark could have killed you, Dorian, and possibly more.”

That does nothing for the guilt clutching him with steely claws. None of this would’ve happened if he’d just get over what happened in the future but he let it get to him, the red lyrium and the nightmares, and he nearly loosed demons on Haven. He nearly… he sees Dorian sitting on the steps leading down to the village path, fingers plucking at his bandaged shoulder. Feeling sick, Maxwell quickly and quietly takes the snowy path around Adan’s apothecary to the village square.

He doesn’t miss how some soldiers skirt around him with wide wary eyes. His left hand clenches reflexively as he quickly strides away. He needs to get out.

“Herald.”

He pauses halfway down the stairs to the gates and turns to look up at Fiona. “Enchanter.”

“If you’re not too busy,” she says, walking down the stone steps at more dignified pace, “might I have a word?”

“I’m not needed at the moment,” he says slowly.

She nods. “Perhaps we can talk somewhere private.”

He follows the mage out of Haven to the dock on the frozen lake, well away from the clutter and noise of the mage camps and training grounds. The din fades as he looks up at the Breach; his left hand twitches, fingers curling around the mark.

“Terrifying, isn’t it?” Fiona says. She’s looking up at it, too. “I never thought I’d witness something so immense, powerful, and breathtakingly impossible in my lifetime. The power required to tear the Veil like this.... it is a powerful magic, the kind we could not study while under the Chantry’s thumb.”

“Why not?”

“You must know Threnodies.”

“I can recite the Canticle if that’s what you wish,” Maxwell says.

She chuckles lowly. “Another time.” She looks at the wooded area just outside the village and the smoke still rising from the trees. “Last night’s fight was… enlightening. All throughout the day, I heard soldiers thanking us, talking to and about us in glowing words when before they viewed us with suspicion. We have always been treated as something lesser, something dangerous that must to be locked away. And now my people are finally learning their worth, that they are worthy, that the revolt against centuries of injustice and oppression means more than just survival.

“You allied with us, Herald. You, a Trevelyan who was not part of any Circle, chose to listen and see us as worthy, as _people_. Your decision sent ripples throughout Thedas. It has, at least, been causing trouble for that fool chancellor who still thinks he has some say in your Inquisition. But now I wonder how far you will go with your decision.” She pauses to give him a moment. “The Nevarran Accord means nothing now and the Chantry is fighting itself. The Inquisition is the only entity with the power to change it - and if you change the Chantry, you change Thedas. What will you do next? Where are my people in the future you shape?”

He stares. How does he answer that? Why do people think he’s capable of affecting change, of making decisions that could and would reshape the Chantry for years to come? When he told Varric that he wanted to help the Chantry reform, this isn’t what he meant. 

But Fiona, former Grand Enchanter, waits, watching him keenly, and he tries not to fidget. Deception is on the tip of his tongue but she’ll see through him. He was never that good at lying.

“You… want to make sure the Chantry doesn’t reinstate the Accords,” he says slowly. “Are you using the alliance as… leverage?”

She smiles. It’s not a particularly nice one. “I did not become the Grand Enchanter by playing nice. You said I came to you at the Summer Bazaar with an offer. No doubt I saw an opportunity worth risking my own safety to seize. What actually happened… I will be paying for it for a very long time. And yet you chose to welcome us as allies. That told me we have a chance, a real chance to make the world a better, safer place for my kind.”

“My sister and brother are mages,” he admits, “and you came looking for me. You were the only one who wanted to talk. And it made sense. Who would know more about the Fade than the mages?”

“Who indeed.”

“I don’t know what’ll happen after tomorrow,” he continues, “but I know that I can only close the Breach with the mages’ help. Everyone will know it. They’ll see you as you want to be seen. That’s a start, right?”

Her smile deepens the lines on her face and she suddenly looks much older than her years. “It is.” She hesitates and then says, “Your brother… his name was Edmund, was it? When I heard a Trevelyan came to Redcliffe, I sought him out. I was curious - your family is devout. The mages are as loyal as the templars and Chantry mothers and sisters. Yet here he was, telling me what happened to his Circle and why he could not just hide away until the war’s end. I heard his story many, many times, mages of all fraternities and from all corners fleeing to Redcliffe because it didn’t matter what they believed or that they had a right to exist. It only mattered that they were mages.”

“He said he was tired of surviving,” Maxwell says. “He wanted to live. That’s why he came to the Conclave.”

“We all want to live, Herald. After the Breach closes, I’d like to be there when the Inquisition takes its next step.”


	4. threnodies 5: and when the heavens fall

Morning is cold and bright, and he shivers, breath fogging around his head, while walking to the Singing Maiden. Few people are awake and about at this hour but they all stop to stare and murmur his name when he passes by. He smiles tightly, not wanting to risk letting out the butterflies in his stomach, and quickens his stride.

At the tavern, Flissa sets a plate of food and a pint before him without a word; she pats his shoulder before walking away and it feels like sympathy, like faith. He picks at the fresh loaf of bread, the piece of hard cheese, the apples that she always plies him with, but doesn’t think his stomach can handle anything.

“You’ll need your strength, Herald,” Varric says, sliding into the seat across from him. Even Varric is tense, shoulders stiff as he gestures to Flissa for food and drink. “Today’s the big day. Don’t start it on an empty stomach.”

“You can call me by my name, you know,” he mutters and rubs his face. “Not ready to be the Herald just yet.”

The dwarf chuckles and breaks the loaf in half. “All right, Trevelyan.”

Sera stirs in her corner of the tavern and yawns while stretching and scrubbing the back of her scalp. She blinks sleepily around the tavern and then rapidly when she realizes he’s sitting at one of the tables. “Up already? I’d sleep in, make them come fetch me.”

He shrugs and pockets a bright red apple before pushing the plate in her direction. He nurses the watery ale for the next half hour, listening to Sera and Varric talk smack and Maryden humming while tuning her lute.

Haven comes alive as the sun climbs higher into the sky. The air thrums with tension and hushed whispers, people unable to focus on the tasks at hand when they know what’s happening. They stare at the mages gathering at the gates with their staves and lyrium, and at the Herald walking to the chantry, donned in armor. 

Two sisters talk quietly in the shadows on his right while Vivienne is at her desk on his left, reading a letter. Leliana is the only other person he sees; she’s talking to an agent who glances at him and abruptly stiffens. She notices and dismisses the agent, who promptly vanishes.

“Herald,” Leliana says softly. “Are you ready?”

He breathes deeply, against the ball of dread in his chest. “I think so. Where is everybody?"

“Josie and Cullen are putting their affairs in order. Cassandra and Fiona went out to oversee the final preparations.” Leliana tilts her head to the room at the back of the building. “Mother Giselle is here, if you wish to talk to someone.”

Mother Giselle would offer him reassurances, encouragement and strength to face the Breach and everything that comes after. But what he could really use is familiarity and he wishes his revered mother was alive to give him that. She’s gone, though, along with his brother and the Divine and countless others, and he’s the only one left who could make things right.

He wonders if that was what Leliana felt ten years ago, when she traveled with Ferelden’s last two Wardens in search of an army to stop the oncoming Blight.

“What was it like,” he slowly asks, “the night before you went to Denerim?"

She smiles softly, her eyes becoming hazy with memories. “No one wanted to sleep. Everyone knew that if the Wardens failed, it would be the end of Thedas as we know it and so we wanted to savor those last hours. The odds were terrible but we did know them. It was a… comfort, of sorts.” Her smile fades as her gaze focuses on him. “I don’t know what will happen when you attempt to close the Breach. We’ve done all we can. The rest is up to you now.”

Maxwell nods, throat tight. “Let's hope Solas and Fiona's theories about this are right."

"Let us hope," Leliana says.

They turn when the chantry doors open and Cassandra and Fiona walk in. Seconds later, Josephine leaves her office; for once she doesn't have her portable writing desk with her. She clasps her hands behind her back and greets Maxwell and Leliana quietly. Vivienne leaves her corner of the chantry to join them, her staff in hand. She and Fiona maintain a carefully measured distance between them.

“Where’s Cullen?” Maxwell asks.

“He’s waiting at the gates. The mages and soldiers are ready,” Cassandra says. “Are you, Herald?”

Is he? He looks at Leliana and then at Mother Giselle standing at the door to the room in the back. She nods once, a barely perceptible gesture, and the pressure on his chest lessens somewhat. He squares his shoulders and says, “I am.”

“May the Maker watch over you, Herald,” Mother Giselle says. “Good luck.” 

Villagers, refugees, and Inquisition have gathered in the village square, waiting for him. They wish him luck and the Maker’s blessing as he walks by, a rolling wave of voices carrying him to the dirt path up to the temple grounds. Varric and Sera are waiting at the bottom of the steps; the dwarf salutes him while Sera gestures obscenely at the Breach, making him smile. Blackwall, the Iron Bull, and the Chargers wait by the gates with Fiona’s mages and the soldiers tasked with escorting them up the mountainside. Maxwell doesn’t see Dorian among them but the mage materializes at his side before disappointment can set in.

“Was worried you slept in,” Maxwell says, pretending not to sound relieved.

“It’s called being fashionably late. It’s all the rage, you know.” Dorian looks up at the Breach. “Finally setting out to remove that giant eyesore from the sky. Are you ready?”

 _No._ “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

* * *

The sky is empty.

He keeps craning his head up, searching for the maelstrom over the Frostbacks, but all he sees are a river of stars against a clear night sky. The Breach is finally gone, and with it his reason for staying in Ferelden. He told Fiona he'd help her but he doesn’t know if he still matters now, if he still has any say in what the Inquisition will do next.

He looks at his left hand, turning it over to watch the mark flicker over the leather glove. _It is a part of you now._ Can he return home like this, with this magic that Andraste supposedly gave him? Would he be able to live a normal life in a world changed by a war and the Divine’s sudden death?

 _Not yet._ He'll linger while the Inquisition turns to the sundered Chantry and help in any way he can, just like he meant to do when he came to the Conclave with Mother Edith. He'll be of more use in the south than in Ostwick where he'll have to contend with not just his family but a city who'll only ever see him as Andraste's chosen.

"Three cheers for the Herald of Andraste!" someone shouts to a roar of approval and he glances at the revelry in the village square, at the villagers, refugees, soldiers, and mages eating and drinking and dancing around the bonfires. Someone spots him and waves wildly; he waves back before walking away.

People call out to him, thanking and blessing him for closing the Breach, and all he can do is smile and nod back. The attention, the gratitude and adoration, is relentless and joyous but it doesn’t bolster him. He wanders along the curving path, moving deftly through the drunken happy revelry, to find a little bit of solitude. His feet carry him to the Singing Maiden instead and he lingers at the open door; the tavern glows warmly, crowded and full of song. Varric sits near the door at the end of a crowded table, talking to a mage over half a roast game bird and four empty pints. Maxwell takes his chance and sidles over to the dwarf.

"Herald," Varric says with a grin. He clasps his companion's shoulder. "Of all the mages running around Haven, he's the one I bump into tonight. You remember Alain, right? From my book?"

There is an Alain in _Tale of the Champion_ , a mage from the Starkhaven Circle who joined a failed conspiracy to overthrow Knight-Commander Meredith and was last mentioned being trapped in the Gallows during the rebellion.

"I do," he says and offers Alain a smile. "You survived Kirkwall."

"I escaped before... before what happened at the Gallows. Orsino made sure enough of us got out to spread word of what happened. I learned months later what else happened." Alain fidgets. His hands are scarred and the right side of his face is still healing from a burn. "Thank you for giving us this chance, Herald. Being able to prove ourselves, that we mages can do good because we want to, it means a lot."

"I couldn't have closed the Breach without your help. Thank you," Maxwell replies. He glances between Varric and Alain. "I... imagine you both still have a lot of catching up to do."

"Come to the tavern later, when everyone's sleeping off the drink," Varric says. "Said I was going to teach you Wicked Grace properly, remember? Got a deck of cards waiting."

“If you insist,” Maxwell says, smiling, half rising from his seat.

“Bring… maybe five sovereigns with you,” the dwarf adds while picking meat off the roast bird. “Tiny might join us for a few games. Hero, too.”

Maxwell leaves the tavern before someone else notices him but stops right outside the door, the smile falling away. He might never see Varric again after tonight; with no Divine to offer a testimonial to, Varric can return home to Kirkwall. Anyone who joined the Inquisition can leave now that the threat is gone. Blackwall, the Iron Bull, Sera, and so many others have no reason to stay since Cassandra and Leliana intend to save the broken Chantry. 

Depressed by the thought, he decides to continue his retreat from the revelry and trudges down the path, staying close to the shadows. He slows upon hearing voices drifting down from the apothecary and looks up to see the distinct glow of veilfire. Curious, he climbs the stairs. Minaeve and Adan are nowhere to be seen but Dorian and Solas are standing near Adan’s growing collection of clay pots, talking in the light of a veilfire torch. They’re deeply engrossed in whatever they’re discussing so he turns to leave.

"Herald," Solas calls out, stopping him in his tracks.

"I'm not interrupting, am I?" he asks.

"Not at all. Let's continue this another time," Solas says. "Enjoy the night. Tomorrow, the real work begins."

"Thank you for reminding me," Maxwell replies with a grimace. Before Solas can leave, he blurts out, "Will you stay? After tonight, I mean."

The elf pauses, considering. "Tell me - what use will these people have for the opinions of an apostate elf?"

"I don't know, but we only made it this far because of you. They have to consider whatever you say."

"You assume I have a vested interest in the Chantry’s future. But I appreciate your consideration. Good night, Herald."

After Solas leaves, Maxwell looks at Dorian. He'd expected the mage to be drinking something at least but Dorian doesn't even look all that interested in the celebrations. 

"Thought you'd be out there," he says, nodding to the glow of the bonfires.

"What, mingle with the uncultured masses? Don't be absurd. Let them sing their drinking songs and spin around the fire in my stead," Dorian replies. "Shouldn't _you_ be out there? Someone's bound to notice that the great Herald of Andraste is missing out on the festivities."

"Parties are only fun when you're a child and can steal pastries from the table without getting caught," Maxwell says seriously, earning laughter. Inevitably, his eyes wander up to the sky again, searching the black between the stars. "I keep expecting to see something up there but there isn't anything. It doesn't seem real."

"Hate to break it to you but there really was something up there. Made quite the conversation starter, too. 'Hello, nice weather we're having, what are your thoughts on that green monstrosity hanging over our heads and threatening to break the world in half?" Dorian looks at him, musing, pensive. "What do you plan to do now?"

"I don't know," Maxwell says. He raises his left hand; the mark glimmers the same eerie green as the veilfire. "I might stay and help the Inquisition. I thought Divine Justinia could change things, make the world safer and fairer for the mages. I want to make sure the next Divine does that."

"What would you rather do?"

"I don't know," he says and realizes how pathetic that sounds. "My father promised me to the Chantry but he did that too late and now the Chantry’s too broken to do anything. If I go back home... I'll only ever be Andraste's Herald to them. To everyone." He laughs. Today and the weeks and months are catching up and threatening to sweep him away. He doesn't know what he'll find tomorrow. "I'll - I'll think of something. What about you? The Breach is gone but the Venatori are still out there somewhere."

"Unfortunately. I suppose-" Dorian hesitates. "If I had any reason to go back now, it'll be for Felix but he doesn't have much time. We agreed I can do more good here and use the momentum to bring change back home. However, the Inquisition could do us all a favor and move its base somewhere more hospitable. Preferably somewhere that doesn't snow or smell like wet dog."

Maxwell laughs and the sound curls above their heads in a fog. The following lull isn't uncomfortable but his heart refuses to settle and his skin prickles when he thinks Dorian is watching him. He wonders if he should end their conversation here, bid the mage a good night and go find Blackwall, the Iron Bull, Sera, Vivienne-

Adan and Minaeve stumble up the steps, singing one of Maryden's songs, and he suddenly remembers the lines of an old Avvar saga scattered throughout the Hinterlands and the staff still stashed away in his cabin.

"How do you feel about relics?"

"If they're not magical, I have no use for them except to maybe drop them on someone's foot or sell them for more sovereigns than they're actually worth," Dorian replies immediately. "Why?"

"Cullen's men found Tyrdda Bright-Axe's axe and I don't know what to do with it."

"That saga about some barbarian queen? Smash demons in the face with it. I'm sure she wouldn't mind."

"Avvar queen, and it's a staff," Maxwell says. "Though I suppose I can use it like a stave."

"That would be an absolute waste of a staff," Dorian replies, looking physically pained at the thought. "We have an entire village of mages and you're asking me?"

"Vivienne and Solas weren't interested and it doesn’t seem right to just sell it or give it away to a stranger," he says awkwardly. "But if you don't want it-"

"No, no, I'd like to see it. Lead the way."

People keep stopping Maxwell to shake his hand or hug him, drunkenly thanking him and Andraste profusely. He maintains his composure as best as he can but after the eighth time someone stops him in the shadow of the Singing Maiden, he bolts to his cabin. Dorian starts laughing when they reach the door and Maxwell scowls while unlocking it.

"They'll never stop, you know," Dorian says. "They'll be singing your praises for years to come, and why not? You saved them from a most certain doom. Embrace it, _Lord_ Trevelyan. You've earned the right."

He sighs. "Did anyone ever teach you the virtues of humility?"

"I have not a clue what you speak of, Herald of Andraste, Her champion in these dark and troubled times," Dorian replies flippantly.

Maxwell huffs, unable to hide his grin, and enters the dimmed cabin. The embers in the fireplace burst into bright flames and he looks at Dorian with a raised eyebrow. The mage is busy summoning a small wisp for additional lighting while poking at the corners of his cabin.

"Trying to start a library?" Dorian reads the titles off the books in the case across from the bed. " _Tranquility and the Role of the Fade in Human Culture._ Where did you get that?"

"Bookseller at Redcliffe." Maxwell finds the staff under a pile of salvaged armor he keeps forgetting to donate to the smithy and pulls away the oilskin. "Here’s her staff."

Firelight glows in the gem held between the intertwined snakes' mouths but it’s not a reflection of the lit fireplace. Clumps of old dirt still cling to the dented and scratched haft, and he's certain the darker splotches on the other end are dried blood. He holds it out to Dorian, who's utterly delighted to study every inch of it. The focus stone’s glow intensifies while Dorian waves his hand along the haft.

"For something buried and forgotten for Ages, it hasn't lost any of its power. Impressive craftsmanship, even for a barbarian staff," he says. "Are you sure I should have this?"

"Sky Watcher isn't here yet so I can't ask him what to do with it, but it doesn't seem right keeping it here."

"Until he arrives, I'll be more than happy to put this to use." Dorian gives it an experimental swing and just barely misses knocking the chair over. The stone burns as brightly as fire and it flares when Dorian raises his hand to it. "I can see why she was called Bright-Axe, though I can't say if the effect is entirely superficial or also meant to amplify the wielder's magic."

"Could be both," Maxwell says but his eyes are on Dorian and the stone's radiance on brown skin. "Did you get a chance to read the saga? One of the stanzas mentioned a golden city and-"

Someone pounds on the door and Dorian’s little wisp vanishes. Maxwell glances at him and goes to answer. Cassandra is on the other side, breathing hard, a training sword in hand. Her shoulders sag in relief but her eyes are sharp, hard with worry. "Good, you're here."

"What is it?" Maxwell asks. And then he hears the horns blowing in the distance, a roll of thunder, and a rising tide of panic within the village. "Cassandra, what's going on?"

"Get your sword. A large force is marching on Haven."

"You're joking," Dorian says.

She raises an eyebrow at his presence, then shrugs it off. "I wish I was. You can see for yourself. Quickly - the others are gathering at the gate."

Maxwell shrugs on his overcoat and hurriedly ties a sash around his waist before grabbing his greatsword and following her and Dorian down the dirt path to the gates. All around him, villagers and refugees are grabbing whatever they can and running for the chantry. Soldiers and mages hurry to the walls, armed and grim, waiting for the next command. Cullen and Josephine are already at the gates; Leliana joins seconds later, stringing her longbow, and Fiona isn't far behind.

"Herald." Cullen points at the grey mountains. A sea of torches is coming down the snowy slopes. "An outpost spotted them fifteen minutes ago. Managed to get the word out before... whoever they are, they're moving fast - too fast. They'll be upon us in minutes."

"But who would attack us? Not any of the neighboring banns or Orlesian - whose banner are they marching under?" Josephine demands.

"None. We don't know anything about them."

"The Venatori, perhaps?" Leliana suggests, glancing at Dorian.

Dorian shakes his head. "I don't know how many are out there but it's certainly not this many. And if they were marching for anyone, they'd let you know. Trust me on that."

"So what do we do? Is there a plan?" Maxwell asks, thinking about the wooden walls, the civilians, the isolated mountain village. Is there any hope of getting out of here alive?

Before Cullen can speak, someone on the wall shouts, "Commander! Two people approaching the the gates. One of them's injured. Looks like a... templar."

"A templar?" Cassandra says. "Are you sure?"

"My brother was one. I know that suit of armor anywhere," the soldier replies.

On the other side, a reedy voice says, "Please let us in. He's badly hurt. Let us in. Why won't it listen?"

At Cullen's node, soldiers unlock and pull the gates open to reveal a plainly dressed young man in a wide-brimmed hat supporting a wounded templar. Maxwell's eyes widen; he'd seen the man before, at Val Royeaux during the confrontation with Mother Hevara and Lord Seeker Lucius. Cullen runs past him to the templar's side and takes the man's weight off of his companion. He guides the templar to Fiona, whose hands glow with bluish healing magic.

"What's your name, templar?" Cullen asks.

"Barris. Delrin Barris. Ser. Knight-Captain," and Barris grips his arm tightly, eyes flashing red. The song weaves around his halting words, an insidious chiming echo, and Maxwell recoils. "The force marching upon you right now, they're templars."

" _Templars_? You're - this is how the Order responds to us? We just saved Thedas and they're going to attack us? Who's leading them?"

"Red templars march for the Elder One," the young man says, watery blue eyes watching Maxwell. "Yes. They're sick, they sing and the song _hurts_ but it's a better death. It makes them brave, makes them right." He tilts his head to Barris. "They found his lies and tried to teach him the song."

"You mean red lyrium," Dorian says. “They’re really eating it? Who in their right mind-”

"Denam started handing it out months ago," Barris says. His speech steadies as Fiona applies her healing magic. "Said it was better than what the Chantry gave us. It... it changed them. Turned them into monsters. Samson. Samson's behind this. He - he leads them now, for the Elder One."

"Samson?" Cullen looks up at the blanket of torches on the mountainside. "Only Samson I know was a templar in Kirkwall."

Behind them, Varric mutters, "Now this is a sick joke."

“He spoke of you and Kirkwall and Knight-Commander Meredith,” Barris says and then points to the strange young man with a shaking finger. “Cole… found me after they left Therinfal. He kept me alive, helped me get here ahead of the others. They want the Herald.”

“Me?” Maxwell stares numbly at these so-called Red Templars. “What do they want from me?”

“You took his mages away so he’s taking back what is his.” Cole tilts his gaze down to Maxwell’s left hand and Maxwell remembers what Alexius told him. “Burn this wretched world to reclaim what is mine.”

Why didn’t anyone ever stop to wonder what the mysterious Elder One might do? After Redcliffe, they had an idea of what this faceless being wanted, if not why, but only Leliana ever mentioned it. Everybody else, Maxwell included, was too obsessed with closing the Breach. The possibility, the idea, that someone out there might’ve wanted the Breach to stay and to consume the sky... Maxwell watches the torches, hears the faint but growing noise of many feet marching through snow and stone, and his stomach twists into tight knots. 

_They’re here for_ me.

He turns to Cullen and hoarsely asks, “What do we do?”

Cullen looks around and points to the trebuchets positioned behind the wall. “Control the field. Haven isn’t a fortress and we don’t have the numbers to face them head-on, but we can turn the mountains against them. I’ll send soldiers to man the trebuchets but I need you and the mages to hold the line. The rest will evacuate Haven.” He turns to Fiona. “I know we have our differences, Enchanter, but not tonight. I need the full force of your mages to stop that army. Will you help save the Inquisition?”

“Count on us, Commander,” she says and leaves to rally her people.

Josephine and Leliana help Cole bring Barris within Haven’s walls while Cullen starts shouting orders to the soldiers. Mages, soldiers, and former templars stream out of the village; Vivienne and Solas are among them, talking tersely with the mages while taking position and readying their barriers. Sera shoulders her way out of the chaos, toting two jars and her crafted bow.

“Well, shit,” Varric mutters darkly. “Left Bianca in my tent. Don’t start without me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Cassandra says while the dwarf runs back into Haven.

Maxwell spots Blackwall striding past, a battered training shield and longsword in hand.

"Blackwall!" he calls out.

The Warden turns to him, cheeks ruddy with drink but eyes as sharp and fierce as ever. He’s wearing a collage of salvaged armor and looks odd, especially without the familiar embossed Warden griffon on his breastplate. "Herald. Heard a whole army of templars is marching on us."

Maxwell points to the mountains. "Cullen's getting the trebuchets ready. Do you have any ideas?"

Blackwall looks behind him at the seige weapons behind the wall and then at the ones positioned near the frozen lake, hastily manned by frantic soldiers while the mages and ex-templars form a barrier in front of them. "Use the mages and archers first. Bring their numbers down. They'll need to cross the ice so break it under them. They'll drown in their armor. Someone needs to go tell them that and fast.”

"We can do that," Krem announces as the Chargers appear, followed close behind by the Iron Bull. Maxwell wonders how they all found to the time to armor and arm themselves to the teeth.

The Iron Bull sidles over to Dorian. "Nice staff," he quips and Dorian sighs. "But looks like you need some help polishing it-"

"Now, Bull?" Maxwell asks, not even remotely amused by the attempt at levity.

"I'm joking." The Iron Bull’s face then darkens while he eyes the gathering red templars. "What do you need us to do, Boss?"

"The trebuchets need time between attacks to calibrate and load. Keep the templars off of them," Blackwall says. "Use diversions, make them nervous. Stop them from flanking us or surrounding Haven. The trebuchets will take care of the rest."

“Bull,” Maxwell says. “Weren’t you always going on about mayhem?”

“You want it, you got it,” the Iron Bull says. “Krem?”

“Don’t need to ask twice, Chief,” Krem says and signals the Chargers to move. “Good luck, Herald.”

Varric returns with Bianca and several quivers of crossbow bolts. Sera climbs to higher ground with a bag of Varric's caltrops and her bees. Blackwall departs to direct the soldiers and templars manning the lakeside trebuchets. Maxwell looks over his shoulder at Leliana standing on Haven's wall, longbow in hand and a full quiver at her hip. 

Someone shouts and he half-turns to see the first of the invading templars emerge from the deep shadows of the mountainside. A horn sounds, Vivienne and Solas cast barriers, and Fiona gives the command; with a thunderous crack, the ice breaks underneath the templars, plunging them into frigid waters. Other mages rain fire and lightning and crush them against stone but for every fallen templar, another appears. They stubbornly advance, an unmovable wall singing eerily red.

“Herald,” Cassandra says.

He looks at the Seeker, then at Varric and Dorian. He grips his greatsword tightly, wishing for his armor, for Cassandra to carry her own shield and Dorian his staff instead of an old Avvar relic. He looks around at the scrambling Inquisition forces and hears the cries of the terrified civilians within Haven. They’re not ready. Haven isn’t ready but they have no choice.

He heads to the trebuchets. “Let’s go.”

* * *

For nearly an hour, the Inquisition holds the line against the corrupted templars while trebuchets pound the mountainside, burying the army in snow and stone. Barris was right about the lyrium; some of the templars charging them weren’t human at all but another kind of abomination, red lyrium bursting out of their armor and skin like in so many of Maxwell’s dreams. The horrifying sight sears into his mind as he defends a trebuchet; their screams are inhuman roars and they fight with the strength of ten, twenty men.

Still, they are mortal. They fall, burned brittle by Dorian’s fire and shattered by Maxwell’s greatsword and Cassandra’s shield.

Then a _high dragon_ drops out of the sky with an ear-shattering roar and breaks apart the trebuchets like a tempestuous child flinging their toys. She breathes searing corruption on the breaking line of soldiers, ex-templars, and mages, tosses them aside with a sweep of her tattered black wings before rising above the fray. Maxwell watches the dragon scream over the scattered cheers of the Red Templars and his heart sinks at the realization that the battle had always been lost.

“Maxwell,” Dorian says quietly, urgently, pulling at his arm, and they run back to Haven.

Harritt is trying to get inside his burning smithy. Cassandra tries to haul him away but the Fereldan refuses to leave.

“Are you mad?” Cassandra demands. “Get back to the chantry!”

“My tools are in there!” Harritt snaps back. “Either I get them back or die in the attempt.”

She storms off with an exasperated sigh and to beat back two templars trying to sneak up on them. Maxwell kicks the door down and Dorian smothers the flames with a burst of cold, giving Harritt the chance to not die while grabbing his precious tools. After Cassandra and Varric see to the templars, they usher Harritt back inside Haven ahead of the rest of the templar horde. 

Behind the village wall, Maxwell hears defiant shouts - Lysette, one of the former templars, is besieged by the Red Templars that made it past the barricades. Dorian hexes them to pull them off of her and Varric shoots them down. She joins them and Harritt as they hurry up the steps to burning cabins and an abandoned village square. High above, the dragon screams and they flinch, instinctively cowering for the few seconds it takes for the dragon to sweep past while blasting down the walls with her corrupted breath.

“Do you hear that?” Lysette asks and looks at one of the burning buildings. “Someone’s inside!”

She and Cassandra drag Seggrit out of it right before the roof collapses with a crackling roar. Cassandra then orders Lysette and Harritt to take Seggrit back to the chantry and tells Lysette specifically to inform Cullen that the Herald is still alive.

“There may be others,” Cassandra says after watching the three slip inside the chantry. “Sweep the village for survivors. This Elder One will not have them.”

No one objects.

Templars are hauling themselves over the broken wall near the Singing Maiden, now aflame and slowly collapsing. While Cassandra and Dorian take on the invaders, Varric swears he hears someone calling for help and dashes inside the tavern. Maxwell steels himself and runs after the dwarf into a searing wall of heat and bright roaring fire; he flinches as beams snap and fall, showering him and the ground with embers. Varric is pushing one such beam off of Flissa and Maxwell helps him pull her out of the tavern before the whole building collapses.

“Maker, I didn’t think - I wasn’t-” Flissa stammers incoherently as Varric quickly points her in the direction of the chantry. The woman flees while stuttering her gratitude to him.

Everyone finally learns what Adan was doing with the clay pots when dragonfire ignites them mere seconds after Maxwell and Cassandra pull Adan and Minaeve free from debris; Cassandra glares at the man while they shepherd the two to the chantry. Red Templars are trying to assault wooden building but Threnn, who is still outside it, won’t let them pass. Maxwell crashes the fight, greatsword swinging, and helps her beat back the templars. She gives him a rare appreciative nod while pulling her sword out of a lyrium-ridden corpse.

Cassandra bangs on the doors and calls out to those inside while Dorian creates a ring of fire mines in front of the building. Chancellor Roderick answers, blood welling on his lips, and ushers everyone inside. The cleric crumbles as Maxwell steps past but when he turns to help, Cole is already at Roderick’s side and helps the man to a bloodstained chair. Cullen and another soldier shut and barricade the doors.

Maxwell leans against the wall, catching his breath, and watches Cassandra meet with Cullen and Leliana. It’s not hard to guess what’s being discussed, how hopeless their situation has become. He wipes the blood and sweat off his face and looks around the chantry, feeling only minute relief to see Sera sorting her few arrows and Solas assisting the injured, the Iron Bull and his Chargers standing in a corner to look over each other. Vivienne and Fiona are talking to the surviving mages, Mother Giselle is consoling the civilians, and Blackwall is inspecting the chantry’s walls, probably calculating how long it’ll last against a dragon. Varric sighs while slinging Bianca over his shoulder and brushes debris off of his arms.

“For the record,” Dorian says, leaning heavily on Tyrdda’s staff, “I take back everything I said about archdemons on doorsteps.”

Varric looks between Maxwell and Dorian. “Seriously?”

“He didn’t mean it,” Maxwell replies. He frowns when Dorian thrusts a small green vial under his nose. “What-”

“My last one. Hold onto it, just in case.”

Trepidation shivers up his spine as he tucks it under his leather jerkin. He then straightens up when Cassandra, Cullen, and Leliana approach.

“Herald, the situation isn’t good,” Cullen says and Sera laughs mockingly. “That - that dragon - archdemon - whatever it is, it took back whatever chance the trebuchets earned us. Those landslides were our only hope of buying us time to escape but with that beast out there….” He breaks off, shaking his head.

“A trebuchet still stands,” Leliana says softly. Like in the future, she is eerily calm and her voice is silverite. “If we turn it on the mountains, we can bury them.”

“Haven will get caught in it. No one’s going to survive,” Maxwell says. He waits but nobody offers an explanation, a way out. “You mean for this to end here, tonight.”

“We can deprive the Elder One of the army he made and give the rest of Thedas a chance,” Cullen replies. “A few agents already escaped to pass on word to our allies if we don’t make it.” He takes a deep breath. “At least we get to choose how to die.”

Chancellor Roderick coughs violently, spraying blood all over his shaking hands and sleeves, but waves off the handkerchief Josephine offers him. Cole looks at the man’s ashen face and says, “Yes. That’ll work. Chancellor Roderick knows. He can help.”

“Chancellor?” Cassandra prompts.

The cleric points to the back of the chantry. “There is a small path, once used by the heretics that lived here. You wouldn’t know it unless you took part in the summertime pilgrimage. I’d almost forgotten it until now… Andraste must’ve - She must’ve known that I’ll be here to show you the way.”

“Then we still have a chance,” Josephine says hopefully.

“We don’t have the _time_ ,” Cullen replies. “They’ll break down the doors or have that dragon rip off the roof before we can get everyone out.”

“But he doesn’t care about them,” Cole says. “He’s only here for the Herald.”

“The Elder One is actually here?” Cassandra asks. “How do you know this?”

“He wants it back,” the strange young man insists, looking squarely at Maxwell with those watery blue eyes. "He wants what you took. He’ll kill everyone just to get to _you_.”

The answer comes abruptly and with it the sinking realization of what Maxwell is asking himself to do. Time slows between one sharp breath and the next as he lingers on the fatalistic thought and the sequence of events that led to up to this moment, this harried point of in time.

He should’ve died at the Conclave. Instead, he escaped with his life and magic that could save or doom Thedas. Maybe he was always meant to die young and since he escaped the first attempt, this is how it happens - with a desperate last act against an unstoppable force to save the Inquisition. He was never meant to see the end of the mage-templar war, never meant to see his twenty-third year.

He could almost accept this. That was the funny thing about being born the youngest and a Trevelyan, about growing up with a revered mother who believed in service for the good of all living things. Better to sacrifice one life for all the lives in Thedas. But he looks at the people around him and thinks of the family he hasn’t seen in months, of the friends he made here, and he wavers.

_Why me? Why did it have to be me?_

Cole looks at him with pale eyes, like he knows exactly what Maxwell is thinking. “I want. I want to say differently but it won’t help. He won’t stop until he has it back.”

“If I go to him,” Maxwell says slowly, to no one in particular, “if I distract him, will that do it? Cullen, would that be enough time to evacuate Haven?”

“Consider what you’re proposing, Herald,” Solas protests. “That may be what the Elder One wants. Do not give into his-”

“I’m not giving him anything.”

“You’re what he wants,” Cole says. “Nothing else matters. They’re in the way. Crush them. Kill them all. Bring this false herald to me. I will have what he stole from me.”

“If we move quickly, then yes, we have a chance,” Cullen says and hope flares brightly in everyone’s faces. It sinks in the next second with his next words. “But you can’t let the Elder One get away from you. You know what he’s planning to do. You saw his future. You can’t give him that.”

“I know.” He sees the lone trebuchet in his mind, the mountain coming down on Haven, on the Elder One, on him.

“Is nobody else is going to ask the question? Do you know exactly what you’re asking of him?” Dorian demands.

“Would you rather we all die here instead?” Blackwall snaps back. “ Would you rather let the enemy take what he wants? We’re cornered and there’s no one to swoop in on griffons to save us. What other choice do we have?”

_At least we get to choose how to die._

“He’s right,” Maxwell says and the entire chantry falls silent. He can hear his heart pounding in his head, the shakily exhale of his breath as he gives the command. “Cullen, get everybody out. The Inquisition must survive.”

“I’ll have a few soldiers load and calibrate the trebuchet. Once we’re past the tree line, I’ll send a signal.” Cullen turns to the nearest soldier. “Inquisition, follow Chancellor Roderick and listen to everything he has to say. Get these people onto their feet. They need to move as soon as he shows us the hidden path.”

The soldiers scramble, rousing the terrified civilians, the exhausted mages and ex-templars. Cole and Josephine help Roderick up and relay the man’s instructions to the waiting soldiers. Satisfied that everything is in motion, Cullen turns back to Maxwell.

“He won’t expect you to come out to meet him.” Cullen hesitates. “Perhaps you’ll surprise him... find a way. I… Herald… good luck.”

Maxwell nods numbly, watches him stride away to give the soldiers additional orders. Then Cassandra steps into his line of sight, donned in salvaged armor. It’s dented in places and someone hadn’t wiped away all the blood. He wonders who wore it last, if they would still be alive if the Elder One hadn’t come looking for him.

“I’m coming with you,” Cassandra declares.

He balks. “What? No, you shouldn’t - you’re the Right Hand. The Inquisition-”

“Has Leliana. I brought you here. It’s only right I go with you and make this Elder One answer for his crimes.” Her face softens somewhat. “I won’t let you face him alone, Trevelyan.”

His heart stutters at her reassurance, the odd comfort she offers. Others are nodding in agreement, faces grimly determined. Swallowing hard, he says, “You can’t all come with me. The Inquisition needs you, too.”

“But we can help,” Sera says. “I’m not running off, not like this. Not after all this.”

“Someone needs to watch our backs,” Leliana suggests. She had somehow procured three full quivers during the meeting and gives one to Sera. “Even if he wants the Herald, he will try to destroy the Inquisition, too.”

“Leave that to us,” Vivienne says.

Even Solas wants to help clear the way to the last trebuchet. Maxwell swallows hard, mouth dry, and nods once because he can’t speak, can’t cobble together heroic words.

“Then it’s settled,” Cassandra says. “Let’s go.”

Templars roam Haven, searching for stragglers, survivors, a weakness in the chantry building. They don’t expect the Inquisition’s best to burst out of its door. Vivienne carpets the ground with glyphs and wards while Blackwall and Sera take position behind it. A templar still foolishly charges them and a glyph flings them back; Blackwall throws a dagger at the staggering templar and they fall in the snow. The Iron Bull barrels into a red lyrium monstrosity with a roar, followed closely by his Chargers. Solas turns on two templars and, with a vicious downward gesture, crushes them with telekinetic force.

Leliana joins the fight with a steady stream of arrows and daggers, darting around Vivienne's wards and brushing off Cassandra’s furious command to help Cullen with the retreat.

“Go, Cassandra. I’ll watch your backs,” she says and kills a templar sneaking through the trees. She then aims at the ones hoisting themselves over the walls. “Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me. I shall not fear the legion….”

Her eyes are alight with cold and righteous fury, and Maxwell remembers her holding fast against the demons a year from now, unafraid and unwavering to the very end, confident that she won’t die in vain. Their eyes meet and she nods once before swiftly slaying three templars in rapid succession.

Bolstered by the sight, he turns to follow the others down the stairs, throwing back any templar trying to stop them. Four soldiers meet him at the bottom of the steps; one is bleeding heavily and leaning on his windswept companions.

“Herald,” another soldier says, pointing up the path along the broken, blackened wooden wall. “The trebuchet is loaded but those bastards got to us before we could aim it.”

“You did enough,” he says while Cassandra and Varric run ahead to take out the lyrium abominations trailing the soldiers. “Get back to the chantry.”

“Thank you,” she replies, full of conviction. “Maker watch over you.”

He watches them climb the steps and be taken in the Chargers. They fall back with the others, disappearing from sight, and he suddenly feels alone. There won’t be anybody else, no force, no army on horseback or feathered wings, to help him face down the templar army marching on Haven, the dragon circling overhead, the Elder One who claims the mark is his to reclaim. He’s the only one standing between unimaginable horrors and the Inquisition 

“Maxwell,” Dorian says.

He turns and the din, the roar of fire and death, fades when the mage reaches for him. A hand curls against his face and Dorian searches it before slowly drawing him in. Maxwell closes his eyes and his heart stops when Dorian kisses him fiercely and with no reserve. He pulls back before Maxwell can react. 

“For luck,” Dorian says softly, thumb brushing against an old scar running over his left eye, and Maxwell realizes what else he’ll lose tonight.

He will never have a chance to say or do anything, to wish for more than the few weeks they spent learning about each other. Maxwell leans into his hand, hoping it will be apology enough, and feels trembling fingers curl against his face. Then Dorian steps back and reality rushes in with a dragon’s earthshaking thunder. Maxwell takes a deep breath and grips his bloodied greatsword tightly, glances at Dorian once more before running up the dirt path to the last trebuchet.

Templars, singing with corruption, have backed Cassandra and Varric up against the siege weapon. Dorian strikes before he does, lobbing a fireball to scatter the templars. Varric hails them while picking off a templar with a well-aimed bolt and leaps away from the another, making them stumble and expose their back to Cassandra’s sword. Maxwell runs at the nearest templar with such force that lyrium spikes shatter and the steel pauldron breaks under his sword. The templar manages to shove him off but Maxwell returns with a wild swing, beheading the abomination. He flinches at the red shards cutting his face but doesn’t stop carving a bloody path through the templars. He can’t stop. He doesn’t want to.

His sword breaks against a lyrium-enforced pauldron and he gouges the unlucky templar in the stomach with the broken blade, drives it all the way through their body and shoves them to the ground. He picks up the dropped longsword and whirls around to strike the templar attacking Dorian, driving the lyrium horror off the mage; he throws his weight into every blow until the Red Templar lies broken and bleeding in the snow. He lingers for a moment after, wiping bits of red lyrium off his face, and smiles grimly when Dorian casts a barrier around them and then a bright bolt of electricity at another grey and red abomination.

The body count rises as the templars fail to destroy the trebuchet and drag Maxwell away. They fall in the snow and stain it with blood and red lyrium. After the last templar dies, an absolute behemoth of a corrupted templar that tore up the mountainside until Cassandra cut off its head, Maxwell runs to the trebuchet and quickly turns the crank until it’s in position. He looks over his shoulder at Haven, searching for the signal so that he can tell Dorian and the others to leave. 

He almost misses the dragon swooping down on them, jaws open and crackling red.

“Run!”

But Maxwell doesn’t. He flinches away from the explosive burst of fire and then he’s thrown off his feet by the force of the dragon’s wings as she flies past. His ears ring and his lungs fill with ash, and he coughs while slowly sitting up. He looks around at the wreckage and fire, and his shoulders sag in relief when he sees the trebuchet still standing.

Something moves through the wall of flame and he slowly stands to meet the Elder One.

* * *

The signal streaks into the sky, bright and beautiful. Maxwell waits a moment longer, letting himself just _breathe_ while steeling himself for one final act. He looks up at the Elder One - _Corypheus_ , who claimed he walked into the Fade once at the bidding of a god just like seven magisters once did a thousand years ago - and then at the black high dragon, counting each breath and heartbeat until he knows he can’t wait any longer. He grips the longsword and issues a taunt as the Elder One and his dragon approach.

“Enjoy your victory,” he says and kicks the winch. “Here’s your prize.”

He watches the dawning realization in Corypheus’s warped, hideous face, and then runs. The dragon roars, the templars shout, and then all are drowned out by the rumbling thunder of an avalanche bearing down on tiny broken Haven.

He only gets seconds to think, to wish for a better fate. To see Evelyn and home again. To meet the people who formed the core of the Inquisition under better circumstances. To have a chance with Dorian.

The ground shakes and he runs faster, a last act of defiance. He leaps right as the wall of stone, dirt, and snow catches up and the ground gives-

….

….

….

His first conscious breath is shallow and tastes of blood. He tries to breathe but can’t; sharp hot pain wracks his body and he curls onto his side, wheezing and desperate for air but unable to draw it in. He tries to move his right arm out from under him and blinding agony-

….

….

When he comes to, he smells stale earth in the air. He squints at the dark but can’t make anything out; the faint green glow isn’t bright enough. He wonders where it’s coming from and then realizes he’s the source. He looks down at his left hand; the mark is no longer a long jagged line across his palm but green tendrils branching out to wrap around his fingers, hand, and wrist. He closes his eyes.

….

He hears dripping water somewhere. His mouth is dry, tastes of iron and dirt; he’d like to wash it out, wet his parched throat. He tries to sit up; pain lances his sides and shoulders and he stops, breathes through it until it subsides to a dull ache. Slowly, he pushes himself up. His right arm won’t work and his head throbs so painfully that he ends up doubling over, dry-heaving. He collapses afterwards.

When the pounding fades to something manageable, he crawls to the source of the dripping water, right arm curled uselessly against his bruised chest. Water drips into the cavern from above, creating a small muddy pool. He pulls himself right into it and leans back to let the water fall into his mouth. Once his throat is no longer dry, he leans against the wall and looks up at the weak sunlight streaming through rubble and stone.

He wonders where the Inquisition is now. If the avalanche managed to kill both Corypheus and his dragon. If there are any Red Templars left. He wonders where Evelyn is hiding now, if she’ll ever hear what became of him and Haven. He wonders if Dorian is safe.

He remembers a small vial hidden under his jerkin. He slides his fingers under it and finds the small vial, pulls it out and just stares because it somehow survived the horrible night intact. He tries to open it with one hand and half the contents spill on him and the ground. He tips the rest into his mouth and sighs while the elfroot soothes his beaten body, numbing the pain and trying to mend bruises and broken bones. It isn’t enough but now he can stand.

He makes a splint out of broken beams and the shreds of an Inquisition banner, sobbing in pain while wrapping it tightly around his right arm. He doesn’t move again until sunlight disappears. Slowly, he rises to his feet, nearly topples over, and slowly limps around the cavern until the light of his mark - _anchor_ , Corypheus called it while trying to rip it out of his hand - reveals an opening. A tunnel. The air flows and so he enters it.

Who or what crawled through these mountains under Haven? Dwarves? The fanatical cult that once lived in Haven? An Avvar tribe? The ancient Alamarri? The tunnel goes on and on, reinforced by old grey wooden beams. Crumbling blackened torches litter the ground and he wishes he can summon fire to light one; his left arm aches from holding his left hand up to light the way. Exhaustion comes in waves until he stumbles into a wall and sits down hard.

He wakes, disoriented, wondering where he is, what happened to him, why he’s in so much pain. The anchor’s glow shows him a tunnel and an Inquisition banner wound tightly around his right arm.

_Haven. I buried Haven. They’re safe. The Inquisition is safe._

He slowly stands and continues down the tunnel at a druffalo’s pace. He stumbles out into a cavern and something screams. Demons are floating around the cavern, lost, but they turn to him with desperate shrieks. Where did they come from? Did a rift open here? He reaches for his sword as the demons converge, shrieking, gaunt arms reaching for his face. The gesture twists his fractured ribs and brings him to his knees, and then he remembers he lost his sword somewhere in the avalanche. He can’t fight back.

He still throws his left hand out when the first demon reaches for him.

The anchor pulses and bursts, _pulls_ at the Veil and rips it open with a roar. Horrified, Maxwell pulls his hand away and falls back but no creatures spill out of the newly formed rift. Instead, it drags the demons in with an ear-splitting howl and then collapses with such force that it throws him to the ground and shakes the cavern. He curls into himself, grimacing when broken stone fall from the ceiling onto his back. Once all is still, he slowly sits up and stares first at the empty space where the rift existed for several seconds and then at his shaking hand. He remembers what Solas said about its potential and what happened the other night. It had taken Dorian’s magic for it to tear into the Veil but now he can do it on his own.

What did Corypheus do to the anchor? He turns his hand over, watching the vivid magic curl and lick against his skin. Was this what caused the Breach? Was he or Corypheus responsible for the temple’s destruction and the Divine’s death? 

He drops his hand to his lap. “Why can’t I remember anything?” 

Nobody answers.

Eventually, he notices a wind spilling into the cavern and hears the faint howling of a gale. He holds the anchor up to see a tunnel on the other side of the cavern. It must be the way out.

He slowly lurches to his feet and follows it. The tunnel leads him out of the mountains into deep snow, a clear night sky, and a faint glow on the horizon. A strong cold wind swirls around him, kicking up snow and pushing him about. He looks back at the tunnel, a welcoming sight compared to the elements, but he’ll die if he doesn’t leave this place. He hunches his shoulders and steps into the snow. The mountains slowly fade into the white.

He trips over a broken wagon and the remains of a fire. Warmth fills him when he sees more debris strewn all over the snow and a fading trail ahead of him. Is it the Inquisition? Or an unlucky party lost in the Frostbacks? Does it matter? He follows the trail.

When he finds a tattered Inquisition banner in the snow, he knows he’s going the right way. He’s moving too slowly, though, staggering through the treacherous terrain against a stiff wind. His limbs are heavy and he struggles to keep his eyes open, to stay awake, to not fall. If he does, he’ll never get up.

Then the howling begins.

At first, he thinks it’s just the unrelenting wind but as he continues along the trail of debris, he realizes that he’s hearing howling wolves. A chill unlike the blistering cold wind seizes his chest as he frantically looks around. He can’t see them through the snowstorm but he knows they’re there. They must be following him, waiting for the inevitable so that they can feast. He grits his teeth and keeps walking, watching for either the wolves or the Inquisition. Minutes - hours? - pass and then he realizes the howling is coming from somewhere ahead of him. No matter which direction he goes, the howling doesn’t come any closer and it’s never from behind. 

Numbly, he wonders if the wolves aren’t here to eat him. Are they leading him somewhere? At this point, he’ll take whatever help he can get even if it’s from a pack of wild beasts. He limps after them, or wherever he thinks they might be. 

He finds an abandoned camp under a stand of windswept trees. The ashes from the fires haven’t blown away or buried in snow, meaning the Inquisition isn’t as far away as he thinks it. He bows his head, tucks his right arm against his chest, and keeps walking.

The anchor is his only light when night falls on the mountains but he can barely see it anyway; he can’t keep his eyes open. His eyelids are heavy and rubbing his face won’t help. He starts closing his eyes for longer than a blink, searching for that brief blissful respite, while climbing hills and crawling down them. He stumbles and sways as he goes, fighting the elements and his own tiring body, trying to maintain momentum.

He loses it when he stumbles into a rocky outcrop on the way down an icy hillside and can’t make himself take another step. The outcrop shields him from the wind and he leans against the frigid stone, letting himself rest for just a moment, just until he’s no longer so tired and cold.

The wolves howl in the distance but he can’t follow them or the Inquisition’s fading trail. His knees buckle and he slides to the ground.

Something pushes against his shoulder insistently, forcing back the fog in his head. He blinks blearily, peers into the dark, and stares at the bony nose of the Bog Unicorn. He’s seeing things. He lifts his left hand and the Bog Unicorn shies away from the anchor’s light. It doesn’t vanish, though, or bolt into the night.

“... demon horse in the mountains… that? Wolves?”

“For the third time, ser….”

“Well, _something_ spooked that damned… ought to just leave it…”

Shapes move through the dark, dimly lit with torches. The voices are familiar but he can’t place them. He tries to stand, to go to them and see if they’re real, but his legs won’t move. The Bog Unicorn nudges his head, forcing it up, and he pushes its muzzle away with his hand.

“... something over there. Looks like a deer.”

“What’s it doing - what’s that? You see that? Not more magical nonsense, is it?”

“No, I think - that light….”

He looks up at two people cautiously approaching, torches held high. Then one of them shouts and runs to his side, dropping the torch in the snow to kneel and cradle his face with warm calloused hands.

“Andraste’s ashes, he’s alive.” Dennet looks up at the Bog Unicorn and then at the soldier behind him, a pale Sergeant Katarin. “Damned demon horse led us right to him. Get the others. The Herald’s _alive_.”


	5. andraste 14: begin again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took liberties with setting up Skyhold, especially with the future roles of the Haven NPCs. Also took liberties with a whole host of other things but that's a given.

“I’ve seen such a place in my dreams. There is a fortress in the mountains, waiting for a worthy force to hold it. We can rebuild there if you wish.”

“I’ve seen no records of such a place,” Leliana says. “Do you know where it is?”

“Yes. Here.” Solas taps the ink-stained map in Josephine’s hands. “By my estimation, it will take three days to reach it.”

Cullen frowns skeptically at the map. “Are you sure? If we go there and find a pile of rocks….”

“I don’t have a better idea. Do you?” Cassandra asks.

“Well….”

“A pile of rocks is better than nothing so long as we have somewhere to start,” Fiona says. “What do you say, Herald?”

All eyes turn toon Maxwell, the only person in the meeting who’s sitting down and also the only one having a hard time following the conversation. He looks warily at Josephine’s map and then at the expectant people standing around it and him. He wonders why they want his opinion. What does he know about strategic locations?

“I… nobody else has a suggestion?” he slowly asks. No one comes forth with one, not even Cullen. “Haven’s gone and we need to go somewhere. Solas says it’s only three days away.”

“All right,” Cullen says. “I’ll give the order. We’ll move out tomorrow morning.”

Cassandra walks Maxwell back to his tent near the makeshift infirmary. It’s not far but he tires after twenty paces and limps to an empty cot, one of many scattered all around the camp. He sits heavily and with a grimace, breathing hard while his body aches and aches and aches. He stares at the coarse strips of fabric keeping the splint on his right arm in place; the mage healers had opted not to use magic to accelerate the healing process, fearful of how it might interact with the anchor. 

And can he blame them for not wanting to take the risk? He looks at his left hand, the knuckles bruised and marked with scabs, and turns it over while watching the anchor crackles and glows all around it. Fade magic had spread out from his palm like a crooked spider’s web, thin green lines crawling up his fingers and down his wrist. It’s an intimidating and awe-inspiring sight.

He told Solas about the anchor once he was conscious, especially about the strange orb in Corypheus’s possession and the trapped demons he banished back to the Fade. Solas deduced from his halting descriptions that the orb was old elven magic and also confirmed that the anchor had indeed become more powerful.

“I recommend against attempting it again,” he had told Maxwell. “This is a volatile magic and one shouldn’t test fate with it, especially someone who is not a mage.”

Cassandra quietly clears her throat and he looks up from his left hand. She looks around but people are keeping their distance, either out of respect or because of the anchor.

“I couldn’t find Cole, but I did talk with Blackwall this morning,” she says. “He agrees that we need the Wardens more than ever, but he doesn’t know where to look. Nobody does.”

“Didn’t Leliana send someone to Vigil’s Keep?”

“Nobody there knew why the Wardens suddenly left, only that they did so just weeks before the Conclave. Josephine was waiting on word from Weisshaupt and Montsimmard when we were attacked but I believe we’ll hear the same - they all disappeared around the same time.”

“And you think Corypheus had something to do with it?”

“If all of Varric’s story is true.”

She had told him the unmasked Elder One wasn’t a mystery to unravel. She brought Varric into Maxwell’s tent to tell the story of Hawke’s apostate father, blood magic, Grey Wardens, and a prison in the Vimmark Mountains. 

“Do I look like an expert on all things darkspawn to you?” Varric demanded when pressed. “Just because I was there when Hawke killed him doesn’t mean I can explain how he came back to kill us again! Maybe that’s the real reason why the Wardens locked him up! I’m not one so go ask Hero about it!”

On any given day, his tale would sound utterly preposterous, a figment of a bored dwarf’s wild imagination, but Maxwell had traveled to the future. He’d survived whatever destroyed the Temple of Sacred Ashes and walked out of the Fade alive, the first person to do so in a thousand years.

The morning of the Conclave is a distant memory now, dreamlike, an echo of a simpler and more rational time. While the mage-templar war was violent and tumultuous, it still played within the rules of the world as he understood it. It still made sense. The Breach? The Venatori? Red lyrium-consuming templars and an ancient darkspawn magister? How did a Chantry schism devolve so rapidly?

“At least we know the enemy now,” the Seeker says quietly. “You may not want to hear this but he’s done more for the Inquisition than the Breach could. By attacking us, he legitimized us as a force to contend with, to respect. He’s convinced people to put aside their old hurts and grudges to join our fight. They see now what must be done to save the world from him.”

“Still can’t believe the Divine dying in the explosion that created the Breach wasn’t enough,” he mutters.

“Orlesians love their conspiracies,” Cassandra says darkly. “Not anymore. The enemy has shown his face and given us his name. He lost his power over us. We now know who he is, what he wants and how, and that he can be _hurt_.”

“Bringing a mountain down on his head apparently didn’t do anything,” Maxwell says. He shudders at the echo of the avalanche in his ear. “it wouldn’t have killed him.”

“We will find a way, Trevelyan, because you made it possible..”

He hears it in her voice. He hears it wherever he goes, sees it in the faces of the people all around him. Even now, they watch him discreetly while going about their business, furtive glances like they’re staring at a too-bright sun. He hears their prayers to the Maker to keep him safe, they murmur his given title with such reverence, with such _weight_.

“Bull has been asking about the Inquisition’s future,” Cassandra suddenly says. “It needs a leader. A focal point, a rallying cry, the face of everything the Inquisition is and should be. It needs someone who can make the hard decisions that will shape the Chantry and the future. But Leliana and I have been discussing this for a while now. We knew there could be nobody else but you.”

He can’t breathe. She can’t _really_ be thinking this, saying this, believing this. 

“Leliana and I are the Hands of the Divine,” she continues. “Josephine is a diplomat and Cullen the former knight-captain of Kirkwall. Everyone knows who Fiona is and what she had done. So you see, the Inquisition needs someone outside the Chantry, the Circle, the Order. Someone who is… above the politics that brought us here in the first place. Leliana and I searched for the Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall. We found _you_.”

She looks at the anchor. “Fortunate were we that you were the one who interfered with Corypheus’s plans for the world. I kept you here because I needed that anchor but you proved yourself again and again that you were capable, that you could make those hard decisions I couldn’t. You even convinced me that the former Grand Enchanter and her rebel mages would make better allies than conscripts. I only wish we were able to reach the templars before Corypheus did… but you ended the war, Trevelyan. Who else can say that?”

He stares at her. She can’t be serious. Leliana can’t be - the Inquisition can’t actually be considering him for the position, the title. No one’s held it since the Inquisitors in Divine and for good reason.

“And then you gave yourself up to save us,” Cassandra says. “You sacrificed yourself… and you lived. Sheer luck or divine intervention, you survived and returned to us. Everyone here knows what you did for them and it’s inspired them. They want to be part of something greater, to be worthy of this second chance, and that is all because of you.

“Whatever happens next, you are no longer just Andraste’s Herald.”

* * *

Deep snow and uneven terrain makes the trek to the mysterious fortress of Solas’s dreams slow and difficult. Everyone is tired, cold, and hungry, but they bear the difficulties with little complaint. When someone stumbles or loses their belongings, others stop to help. No one is going to be left behind.

Maxwell tries to keep to the stumbling pace but even that proves too taxing for him. The fourth time he has to stop to rest, Cassandra orders him to ride one of the handful of horses Dennett managed to rescue. Maxwell limps over to them and only raises an eyebrow when the Bog Unicorn immediately gets down to its knees.

“Damned demon beast,” Dennett mutters while quieting the other nervous horses. 

From his new vantage point, Maxwell can see just about everyone besides the scouts who went ahead with Solas to find the way through the mountainside. Ravens periodically drop out of the sky onto Leliana’s arm, each bearing tiny slips of paper tied to their legs. She’s writing a message now on Josephine’s portable writing desk, one of the few things the Antivan saved from Haven. Josephine is nearby, deep in conversation with Fiona. He wonders what they’re talking about.

The Iron Bull is easy to spot; the towering Qunari is carrying Sera on his shoulders and they’re laughing about something. They and the Chargers are all bruised and covered in bandages but look none the worse for wear. Vivienne is walking imperiously through the snow, a thoroughly expected sight, though she had somehow found the time to trade her gilded court enchanter robes for plain and practical clothing. Blackwall is with the soldiers, keeping an eye out for dangerous footing and dangerous wildlife. Maxwell should probably warn him about the wolves, though he hasn’t heard any howling since finding the Inquisition. 

Cassandra has cornered Varric again to thoroughly grill him on the story of Hawke and Corypheus again, apparently determined to eke out every little detail of that early encounter with the darkspawn magister. Cullen is at the back of the group, keeping pace with the templar Delrin Barris. Maxwell watches the dark Ferelden for a moment longer; Barris’s face is still gaunt but he appears to be healing from his ordeal at the red templars’ hands. Wasn’t there someone else with the Barris when he came to Haven? Maxwell twists around, searching, but sees no wide-brimmed hat. Barris suddenly looks up and at him, and his eyes flicker red. Maxwell quickly averts his gaze but already he hears that sliver of song, that eerie shiver in the cold air. The Bog Unicorn snorts hollowly and quickens its stride, carrying him away from the two former templars.

Dorian is ahead of them, shoulders hunched, and looking miserable with the situation. Maxwell wants to call out to him, to go and talk in order to pass the time, but he doesn’t know if he should. What is he supposed to do when Dorian refuses to say more than a brief greeting in passing? What does it say about that moment in Haven, the kiss and the wistful smile and a hopeless wish for luck?

Tyrdda’s staff is on Dorian’s shoulder and its focus stone glimmers in the pale sunlight. It draws him in like a moth and the Bog Unicorn complies, picking its footing through the snow to the mage.

“Wait, no-” Maxwell blurts out and the undead horse immediately stops. He eyes its bony head. “What sort of demon are you?”

It nods its head, blowing like any other horse but the air rattles through its bony nostrils and startles two former villagers walking nearby. They jump again when they find themselves staring at the Bog Unicorn’s hollow eye socket and then _again_ when they realize the Herald is riding it. 

“I’m sorry-” he tries to say but they quickly shake their heads and back away.

“Apologies, Herald. Didn’t realize it was you.” 

They leave him alone as if he earned the space, the distance and isolation. He watches them disappear into the crowd, feeling off-kilter and wrong-footed, uncomfortable with all of the unsaid things about who he now is to them. 

Dorian is now far ahead of them and Maxwell resigns himself to watching the mage from a distance, at least until they find the forgotten fortress.

* * *

_He runs and runs, lungs and legs burning, heart pounding painfully. The ground shakes and the avalanche roars, an unstoppable force of stone and snow and red lyrium bearing down on him. He risks a glance over his shoulder and the ground suddenly gives out. His stomach drops and he flails, grasping at air while he falls into the Breach._

_Something grabs his left arm and hauls him out of its reach. He almost sobs from relief but the grip tightens as he’s pulled up and up. He stares at Corypheus’s twisted face and the darkspawn - the magister - looks back with old human eyes that have seen too much. Whatever his twisted mouth utters is drowned out by the avalanche he knows nothing about. Maxwell tries to pry the grey elongated fingers off of him but to no avail. His left hand begins to burn and he cries out when the anchor flares like veilfire. Someone else grabs his shoulder to help Corypheus tear off his left hand and he_ lashes out with the dagger under his balled up coat. The blade stops short of slicing Dorian’s throat open.

“ _Fasta vass_!” Dorian jerks away from it, skin already shrouded in protective magic.

Maxwell stares at him, and then drops the dagger and buries his face in his shaking hands. His heart won’t stop racing. He can’t breathe. He hears ragged sobs, feels his lungs struggle, but he can’t breathe.

“Maxwell?” He flinches at the light touch on his shoulder and Dorian pulls back. “Maxwell, it’s… it’s just a dream. It’s all right. It’s just a dream, Maxwell, it’s all right. You’re… you’re safe.”

Dorian doesn’t stop talking. The words blur into nonsense but his voice is steady and Maxwell latches onto it. Time slips in and out as he tries to shake himself out of the nightmare, until he’s hollowed out and exhausted. The pounding his chest finally lessens and he slowly raises his head to look at the mage hovering nearby. 

“Are you all right?” Dorian asks softly. 

Maxwell shakes his head.

“I… heard you while I was walking by. I wasn’t sure - the soldiers were, they were worried but didn’t dare come in to wake you.” His head tilts to the anchor and Maxwell weakly clenches his left hand, dimming its glow.

“How long until sunrise?” he asks hoarsely and is unsurprised by the answer. “Why are you awake?”

“I’m not the only one,” Dorian says. “Not many of us can sleep or stay asleep. It’s been… very trying this past week. You’ll have to forgive me for skipping out on the luxury.”

He sees it everywhere. People stare vacantly at the campfires, at the stars, the mountains, at all hours. Give them a moment to contemplate and they become shell-shocked, numbed by the horrors they escaped, stupefied at their survival. He hears their conversations, too, the never-ending mourning for the dead, the confusion and uncertainty about the future, and wonders how he’s supposed to change that.

But when he looks at Dorian he sees more than weariness in the lines on the mage’s face or the purple under his eyes. There’s no mistaking how he’s looking at Maxwell, his gaze betraying a deeper fear Maxwell caught a glimpse of back at Haven several nights ago. 

“I think… I’ll show myself out,” Dorian blurts out. “You need rest. Well. As much rest as you can get. Good night.”

Dorian slips out of the tent before Maxwell can object, leaving him with half-formed thoughts and fingers curling into the scratchy blankets. He presses his left hand against his chest, feeling the hollow in his chest expand. It’s suffocating.

“I thought… I thought it would help. But it didn’t. Why didn’t it help?”

Maxwell grabs his dagger and holds it defensively while searching for the source of the voice. He finds a silhouette standing in the darkest corner of the tent and squints, trying to make out a shape. He sees wide-brimmed hat and slouching shoulders. A name comes to mind.

“Cole?” he asks, incredulous. “What are you - why are you here? How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long.” Cole sways back and forth. “Long enough. You were hurting. I wanted to help.”

“Wanted to…?” He glances at the tent’s entrance. “Did you bring Dorian here?”

“Yes. Sort of. But the walls didn’t break. They’re too strong.”

“What walls? What are you talking about?” Then, “Cassandra was looking for you. Been going around camp asking about you but you were gone.”

“I didn’t want her to see me.”

When no other explanation is forthcoming, Maxwell says, “She wanted to know why you were at Therinfal Redoubt.”

“You know the song,” Cole says softly and he shivers at the cautious tone. “They swallowed it until they sang. Sick, hollow, angry. They were always hurting but not anymore. They wanted to hurt.”

“The red templars?”

“I followed and listened. ‘They sit and talk in hushed whispers and stop whenever I enter the room. Why won’t they talk to me?’ Red around their necks, their eyes, their words. No more talking, only a darker song. ‘Should I flee?’”

“Did you?”

Cole shakes his head. “He wouldn’t sing their song. ‘I won’t. This is not why I took my vows.’ They made him sing but he didn’t follow. I asked if he wanted the pain to go away but he said no. ‘The Inquisition is at Haven. Take me there. We have to help.’ I wanted to help, so we left.”

“You did. You both did. And Barris is getting better now.” Maxwell sees him in dreams sometimes, monstrous like the lyrium behemoth Cassandra slew, singing that eerie song while gutting him with red claws.

“I want to help,” Cole sudden says, despairing. “I see them. The things that hurt you. They wait behind your eyes and come out when you’re alone. ‘But don’t worry. I’m here. I’ll protect you.’”

Cole shouldn’t know those words. Maxwell sits up straight, hand clenching his dagger. “Cole… what are you?”

Silence. He swings his legs over the side of the cot and limps to the corner where Cole should be. Nobody is there. Maxwell shakes his head and searches for his waterskin before returning to the cot. He stares up at the canvas roof, watching shadows cast by the nighttime fires. The writhing flickers of light and shadow remind him of cold dank water reflecting the red lyrium’s sickly glow. Dorian’s voice bounces off the slick stone walls under Redcliffe Castle, confident and reassuring despite their extraordinary situation.

_“But don’t worry. I’m here. I’ll protect you.”_

* * *

“We are nearly there,” Solas says early in the morning, breath fogging around his bald head like white clouds as he taps on a spot on Josephine’s map. 

“Then let’s move out now,” Cassandra says. “The longer we’re here without shelter and food, the more difficult it will be to leave these mountains in one piece.”

It’s true; the supplies they carried out of Haven with them are dwindling and the mountains are taking a toll. People are becoming more despondent, forgetting the optimism that bloomed when Maxwell returned to them. He for one would love nothing more than to escape the snow and treacherous footing; he’s tired of the bone-deep ache that’s sapping his strength despite the healers’ reassurances that he’s on the mend.

Whispers ripple through the camp as the Inquisition learns how close they are to their mysterious destination deep in the Frostbacks. Hope hums in the brisk air again as they pack their belongings and follow the scouts into the unknown.

Despite Cassandra’s intimidating glare, Maxwell decides to go on foot and rests a hand on the Bog Unicorn’s flank to steady himself in the deep snow. He’s so focused on both the scouts ahead of him and on where he’s placing his feet that he doesn’t notice the person walking beside him until they clear their throat.

“About the other night,” Dorian begins and then reaches out to catch Maxwell when he starts and stumbles to the side. He lets go just as quickly and tries again. “About the other night, I… didn’t realize how terrible the nights have been for you.”

Maxwell actually has no idea how he gets when he’s caught in a dream. No one ever tells him, probably out of embarrassment on his behalf. “Was I screaming?”

“No, but you were in danger of breaking your arm again.” Dorian sighs and looks off into the distance. “I… I’ve never been this high up before. Did you notice how thin the air is? And the cold, and all this blighted _snow_....”

He was so sure Dorian was going to talk about Haven but the mage is determined not to breathe a word of it. He must see the questions in Maxwell’s gaze though because his blustering about the stark unfriendly wilderness ends abruptly and he heaves another sigh, shoulders slumping.

“I know but I’m not… later, perhaps? Away from all these eavesdroppers?” 

He gestures to the people around them, drawing Maxwell’s attention to Varric somewhere off to the side. The dwarf looks disgruntled with his surroundings and also intrigued by whatever Maxwell and Dorian are talking about. 

“How else did he write his book?” Maxwell says, choosing levity.

“If you’re telling me he peered through windows at all hours of the day and night to record the details of whatever Kirkwall’s Champion got up to with-”

Varric huffs, giving himself away. “Serah, I would never! The audacity of your accusations!”

Nearby, Josephine almost chokes trying to stifle her laughter.

The sun is high in the clear blue sky when scouts call for Maxwell and the Inquisition’s leaders. He glances at Dorian before walking ahead, a hand on the Bog Unicorn’s side. Josephine, Cullen, and Fiona join him, curious and hopeful about the mysterious fortress of Solas’s dreams. Leliana is already there, standing on the ridge with the apostate and one of the scouts. She beckons to Maxwell and then steps back so that he can see what lies on the other side.

The sight of the old fortress takes his breath away. It stands imperiously on a plateau nestled deep in the Frostbacks, shielded on all sides by snowy peaks and water. A sturdy stone bridge connects the fortress to the rest of the world and he wonders where the forgotten road goes. From the distance, he can see that the fortress walls are mostly intact but the towers are slowly crumbling. That can easily be repaired.

“The nicest pile of rocks I ever laid eyes on,” Leliana remarks and Cullen groans.

“Does it have a name?” Maxwell asks Solas.

Solas muses for a moment while the rest of the Inquisition gathers behind them, whispering furiously, excitedly and with awe. The frigid air trembles with anticipation.

“The spirits gave me many names, each for the people that occupied it before the last. The oldest called it Tarasyl’an Te’las. ‘The place where the sky was held back.’ You may want a less elven name.”

Like Skyhold.

The scouts signal a clear and stable path to the fortress and the Inquisition walks through the open gates to a quiet overgrown courtyard surrounded by tall stout walls. Within Skyhold is a strange stillness, like the calm before the storm, that terrifying bridled pause. Solas is right about this place; whatever lies within these walls has been waiting for a moment like this, for change to sweep in and transform it into something worthy.

“Do you feel it?” Vivienne murmurs while looking around the courtyard. “These walls should have crumbled ages ago but they haven’t. The air is forgiving and warm. These trees grow unaffected by the cold and snow. Magic is rooted deep within the foundations. It holds the fortress together.”

“Magic?” Maxwell looks around but sees nothing inherently enchanted about the fortress. “Is it dangerous?”

The court enchanter takes a deep breath and focuses on a point in the distance. Her hands glow pale blue for a few seconds. “It is an old magic. It’s been fading slowly for many years but it is still here. Its only purpose now is to protect the fortress. That should serve you well.”

“Serve the Inquisition well, you mean,” Maxwell says uneasily. His stomach knots itself at the knowing smile she gives him while striding away.

Between one heartbeat and the next, Skyhold bursts into activity. Soldiers clear debris away from the courtyards and narrow halls, salvaging what they can and carting away the refuse. Fiona oversees the mages’ efforts to remove broken stone, seal gaps along the battlements, and set protective wards on the bridge and the surrounding land. Healers claim the lower courtyard as an infirmary and tents go up on the upper level. On the third day, ravens descend on Skyhold with messages from Leliana’s panicked contacts and agents; a black whirlwind rises from a dusty tower as the birds take to the skies with news of a rebuilding Inquisition.

“Everyone will know what befell Haven. They will have no choice but to pay attention when we declare ourselves to the world,” Leliana tells him in the cold shadow of the keep. “Now, what did Cole want?”

Maxwell watches the reconstruction from afar, under strict orders from the healers not to interfere and endanger his life. He watches scaffolding rise all around him, the first of the wagons coming through the gates with much-needed supplies, the ravens swirling around the roof of what’s being called the library tower. Some eight days after the first birds leave Skyhold, one of Leliana’s agents arrive with a dwarven mason and Gatsi Sturhald takes charge of the repairs. The courtyard fills with the sounds of hammers, grinding stone, the creaking and footsteps on the scaffolding, Gatsi shouting orders to the workers, soldiers, mages, Cullen. 

“Some sight, isn’t it,” Varric declares one afternoon, arms akimbo while watching the hustle and bustle be directed by the new mason. Instead of helping with the repairs, he’s writing to every contact he knows to cajole them for aid. “Makes you wonder how Chuckles knew this place exists and how exactly to get here.”

“He’s a dreamer mage. Who knows what he sees when he sleeps,” Maxwell says. He spots Solas helping other mages clear rubble from one of the crumbling towers on the wall. “At least we found somewhere to go.”

“Yeah. So.” Varric appears to struggle with what to say, an odd sight for a renown storyteller. “I’ve reached out to some people who might know a thing or two about the Corypheus situation.”

“Who? Wardens?” Why would he keep that bit of information from Cassandra and Blackwall?

“You could say that,” Varric replies. “You could definitely say that.”

The dwarf walks away before Maxwell can question him further.

Once Leliana establishes a reliable line of communication with their agents and allies, Maxwell starts spending more time with her and Josephine inside the dusty main hall, discussing how to make the most of their current situation while workers construct scaffolding to repair the walls and windows. Many of the panes are broken and a cold gale howls intermittently through the hall, kicking up clouds of dust. Josephine keeps sneezing from it and then finally corrals Gatsi to make him cover the broken windows.

“I’ve been letting slip information about the details of what happened at Haven,” Leliana says while observing a chandelier hanging precariously from a rusted chain. “Implied that the Maker intervened on your behalf when you sacrificed yourself to save the Inquisition. Reactions have been very telling.”

Maxwell just barely resists digging his fingertips into his brow. “I suppose that was a necessary thing to do?”

“They know we closed the Breach. They know something terrible happened at Haven, and that we’re still alive,” Josephine says while scribbling something on her writing desk. “Thanks to Leliana, you now have the attention of every single person in Thedas. They’ll want to know you, befriend you, offer favors for favors. I’ll handle them and make sure you have the upper hand every time.”

He glances between the two friends. “How concerned should I be on their behalf?”

Leliana smiles.

One of Skyhold’s buildings was an armory once and Harritt helps make it one again. He doesn’t stay there, though; workers found a place under the main hall, an undercroft that opens up to a waterfall and the breathtaking sight of the Frostback Mountains. Harritt takes one look at the grand space and requests it for his use. No one denies him it.

Dennet and Blackwall convert a former storehouse into a stable in the lower courtyard to house the few horses they have left. When Maxwell asks Threnn about being the Inquisition’s quartermaster, she explains that she declined in favor of a field command and will be replaced by a Eustace Morris. Adan, for all his complaining about being forced into the role of a healer, spends his waking hours in the infirmary, and Minaeve leaves Skyhold on assignment to Kinloch Hold. 

New recruits are coming to Skyhold almost daily now, nearly a month into the rebuilding. The first merchants arrive, enterprising Orlesians and Fereldans hoping to lay claim to an exclusive market, and Maxwell finds himself missing Seggrit’s humble hardscrabble wares. A tavern is being built into a former barracks, but Flissa is pledging herself to the Chantry and people start shoving at each other to find someone to run it.

The faces of the Inquisition are slowly changing as flags rise above the battlements, signaling the Inquisition’s rebirth. And yet, questions about its future still hang in the air and unease settles back in.

“They’re wondering who’s going to be named the new Inquisitor,” the Iron Bull says casually when Maxwell decides to sit with him and the Chargers for an evening. He chews rather aggressively on a piece of dried meat before adding, “Heard a few names get tossed around. Lots of arguing and wagers being made.”

“They’re making bets on who becomes the Inquisitor?” Maxwell asks disbelievingly. 

The Iron Bull shrugs and gulps from his cracked mug of flat ale. He grimaces while setting it down. “Need something to do while we wait. We’re all waiting. Inquisition’s new home is almost finished. Now we need someone to take charge of it.”

Maxwell knows exactly what he’s getting at and fiddles with the splint on his arm. “What did you hear?”

“Some think Cassandra should lead the Inquisition. Logical choice. A Seeker, experienced, the Divine’s Right Hand. She’s the reason why there’s an Inquisition in the first place. But most say you were chosen as Andraste’s herald for a reason.”

“What do you think?”

The Iron Bull considers him for a long moment. “Think you can handle the job?”

“Don’t know.” He clenches his left hand reflexively, drawing attention to the anchor. “Wasn’t really meant for this, you know. Leading people. Making these decisions. Knowing what I’m doing and how that affects everyone else.”

“No such thing like that in the Qun,” the Iron Bull remarks. “No place for questions or doubt. You’re taught like you’re meant for it. You know what you’re supposed to do and you do it.”

“What, they have manuals on how to be an Inquisitor?” Krem asks.

“No, but if the role served a purpose, a tamassran would assign you to it. But the Inquisitor isn’t just about being the most strategic or logical leader. No Qunari can teach how to inspire like you can.” The Iron Bull throws back the rest of his drink and just barely holds back a cough. “Think about it, Boss.”

Maxwell does. He’s still awake long after most crawled into their tents and bedrolls, staring at the dying fire like he’ll find answers in the embers. He knows there is far more to the title than being able to inspire people to rise from Haven’s ashes and wishes he could remember what his tutors said about the first Inquisition. He looks around the courtyard, seeking out a particular silhouette; if Mother Giselle is still awake, he can always ask her. 

Instead he notices the glimmer of a wisp up on the battlements. Curious, he rises to his feet and weaves around the camp to the stairs. He looks around once more and then climbs them to the top of the wall. The moons are slivers against a carpet of stars and he relies on torchlight and his anchor’s bright glow to make his way to the floating wisp.

“Dorian?” he calls out. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to sleep and failing miserably.” Dorian is leaning on the outer wall and staring out at the tall silhouettes of the mountain range. He looks terribly tired and in need of a bath, which must be agonizing for someone who cares deeply about his appearance. “Thought a walk might tire me out. Got distracted by the sights. Never see mountains like these back… back in Minrathous.”

The wind here is noticeably stronger and colder than in the courtyard but it’s not enough to chase Maxwell back to his tent. He looks at the Frostbacks, the stars, and then at the mage beside him. Dorian isn’t even blinking and he realizes what’s going on.

“Dreams?” he asks tentatively.

“You could say that. I worry, you know. About Tevinter, Felix, the future, this Inquisition….” Dorian leaves a word unspoken, hanging in the air. “I hope you know what you’re doing or this trip south will have been a total waste.”

Maxwell laughs bitterly. “I’m not in charge of this.”

“Not yet, anyway, but you will be. No one else here who can do what you do.”

He drums his fingers on worn stone. “What, outrun an avalanche?”

“And fall out of the Fade alive. People like impossible things. You’re all of them, wrapped up in a… Marcher package and delivered to us from Andraste Herself. Compelling story. The stuff of legends.”

“But I’m supposed to lead them, not make miracles,” Maxwell says. He’s starting to feel frustrated with these empty platitudes. “They want me to make the hard decisions that they can’t… or won’t.”

“Sacrificing yourself to ensure the Inquisition’s survival _is_ one, my dear Herald,” Dorian says with some difficulty. “And the hardest one, I imagine.”

“It was.” He remembers Corypheus’s anger, the thunderous cacophony of an avalanche bearing down on him, his last fleeting thoughts before his death. “Makes you think. Makes you wonder about a lot of things.”

“I don’t doubt that.” Dorian sighs and the wisp shivers, threatening to vanish. “I… I think I’ll turn in. You should, too. Saw that devious nightingale hiding something a merchant gave her earlier in the afternoon. She’s planning something. Prepare yourself.”

Maxwell watches him leave and then leans heavily against the wall. He breathes harshly, trying to alleviate the heavy sinking weight in his chest, and wonders what he did wrong. Why won’t Dorian talk about what happened at Haven? Why leave these questions unanswered, hanging in the air between them?

He returns to the courtyard a defeated, anxious man. Morning finds him in a numbed state, exhausted from trying to escape yet another avalanche and fretful over the uncertainty between him and Dorian. They distract him from the strangely frenetic activity all throughout Skyhold and he never suspects a thing when Cassandra asks him to follow her up the stairs to the keep.

“... at great length,” she is saying, “and now we are ready to declare ourselves to the world. The Inquisition is reborn at this very moment... with you as its leader.”

He stops halfway up the steps to the landing where Leliana waits with a beautifully crafted sword. He stares at it, then at Leliana, and then at Cassandra. His heart starts pounding. 

_They’re really doing this._

“Are you… certain of this?” he asks, voice trembling.

“I am and we are,” Cassandra says. She glances down at the courtyard and Maxwell follows her gaze.

Soldiers, mages, and civilians have gathered down below as if they already what will happen today. Even the workers on the scaffolding, the patrols on the battlements, the healers in the infirmary, and the merchants setting up their stalls have stopped their work to watch him and the Hands of the Divine. A hush has fallen over Skyhold, that stillness before the storm.

“Was the vote unanimous? No questions about me? No doubts?” he asks, trying to ignore his racing heart, the weight of the anchor in his hand, the many eyes watching and waiting and _hoping_.

“We all agreed,” Leliana says, smiling, blue eyes bright in the sunlight. 

Josephine, Cullen ,and Fiona stand in the courtyard with the others; they’re all smiling, all standing tall, all so confident with their decision, their conviction in his ability to lead.

“There would be no Inquisition without you,” Cassandra says in a loud clear voice that rings all around Skyhold. He can almost make himself believe in the strength of her words, her faith in her decision and in him. “We ask you to become its Inquisitor. How it will serve you, how you will lead - that will be up to you now. Will you accept?”

Leliana steps forward and holds out the sword. Bold sunlight glints off the blade, highlighting the engravings in the steel, the flames surrounding the Inquisition’s all-seeing eye. He looks at the battlements, the patrols and the curious sight of Solas standing by one of the banners, and then down at the courtyard, at the gathering and all the faces waiting for him to take up the ceremonial sword. He finds Dorian in the crowd, offering a reassuring and somewhat crooked smile, and a fit of bravery comes over him. 

Maxwell raises the sword to the clear blue sky and claims the Inquisitor’s mantle to cheers and ravens taking flight.

* * *

Some things don’t change.

He wakes with a start, to cold panic under his skin. He expects the deafening thunder of a collapsing mountainside but instead hears the crackle of a nearby fire and low voices. There’s no avalanche, no danger of being smothered and crushed by snow and rubble. There are no blowing horns, no dragons, no eerie song on the wind, and yet. He covers his face with his left hand, trying to block everything out.

Sleep will never come. He wishes he can stop stumbling through a broken castle, chased by demons while a red song saps his sanity and strength. He wishes he can stop remembering what it was like to die all alone deep in the mountains. Why can’t he dream of life before the war began and the Circles fell?

But that would mean recalling fire and a cousin’s cries, and his sister screaming his name while the templars dragged her away. That would mean hearing the clacking of mandibles while eight fist-sized eyes gleam in the dark, chasing him and his horse off a cliff into the Waking Sea far below - until the horse snaps its foreleg in a hole and pitches him over the side into the void. 

That would mean feeling his heart break over and over while being pried away from the one thing he could call his own, leaving him humiliated and alone and desperate for escape.

Maxwell eases out of his cot to search for his sword and then remembers that his arm is broken and the only blade in his possession isn’t meant for combat. Reading is the next option but he lost his small collection of books to the mountains. But there is a dusty tower attached to the keep whose shelves are slowly filling with books on magic, the history of southern Thedas, the Blight, ancient Tevinter. They’re the fruits of Minaeve’s labor, texts unearthed in Kinloch Hold, Denerim, and Amaranthine to further research into the unknown they’re facing. 

Maxwell searches for a sash to wrap around his waist but finds nothing. He straps on a belt instead, pulls on his gloves to dim the anchor, and leaves his tent. He was given a secluded defensive location in the courtyard after the impromptu ceremony because people think he needs the space, the privacy, the distance from others. It lets him slip past unnoticed, skirting around the people sitting at low fires, trading drink and gossip - “... but look at Kirkwall. You really think he’ll keep staying here just to help the Inquisitor and not make it easy for other horned….” - and climbs the stairs. The dimly lit hall is watched by eight soldiers, including the newly promoted Captain Katarin. She salutes him and he smiles in return, glad for a familiar face at a familiar hour. 

One of Leliana’s agents holds the door for him before departing for parts unknown. Maxwell enters the library tower and looks up at Solas’s unfinished mural in the atrium, lit by a veilfire torch. Solas believed he should commemorate the events that shaped the new Inquisition and is now painting in the lines depicting the Temple of Sacred Ashes and the creation of the Breach. Maxwell stares at the many delicately painted eyes and his nose twitches at the smell of drying plaster - “Fresco,” Solas had said when he asked. “Frescos are done on wet plaster.” - and then he climbs the stairs to the second floor.

He notices first the single lit candle on Helisma’s desk though Minaeve’s former assistant is absent from it. Then he hears the slow even breathing of someone fast asleep and peers into the nearest alcove. Dorian is curled up next to a crate of books, head resting on folded arms on top of the box. It doesn’t look very comfortable and Maxwell grimaces while imagining the resulting stiff neck and sore back. He steps forward to shake Dorian awake and his eyes fall on the two books under the mage’s elbow. One is a gilded copy of Sister Petrine’s _Ferelden: Folklore and History_ and the other looks like First Enchanter Josephus’ _Tranquility and the Role of the Fade in Human Culture_.

They’re two of the books Maxwell lost in Haven. He looks at Dorian again; are they just part of the shipment or did Dorian request them specifically? Why bother making the effort if....?

Judging by the pile of belongings next to him, Dorian has taken to sleeping in the library rather than in the courtyard tents. Maxwell shakes his head while searching for a blanket of some kind; he finds the mage’s outer robes and drapes them over him. Fingers brush against the thick raised scars on Dorian’s left shoulder and Dorian shifts, huffs under his breath while burying his face in the crook of his elbow. Maxwell presses his lips tightly and slowly breathes out before turning around to leave the library. He needs air.

The other door in the atrium opens to a walkway connecting the keep to the gatehouse. Maxwell leans on the wall and stares down at the sea of tents and the scattered fires, the nightwatch walking the grounds, the healers making their rounds. Someone clears their throat next to him and he jumps.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen says, looking equally surprised. “I wasn’t expecting anybody else out here at this hour.”

“Neither was I.” His eyes narrow at Cullen’s disheveled appearance, at the faint sheen of sweat and dark circles under the Ferelden’s eyes. The man is already pale and yet he looks ashen in the moonlight, sickly. “Are you well, Commander?”

“Me? Yes, I’m fine. Just one of those nights.” Cullen hesitates. “I assume that’s why you’re here.”

“You could say that.” He looks down at the courtyard again and spots two people deep in conversation next to a secluded campfire; they look like Enchanter Fiona and Barris. He wonders what they could be talking about at this late hour, especially given where they stood during the mage-templar war.

A deep sigh draws his attention back to Cullen, who is now kneading his temples aggressively. “Are you sure you’re well? Maybe you should see a-”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Cullen snaps, “but thank you for your concern.”

The silence prickles and Maxwell shifts uneasily from foot to foot, wondering if he should leave Cullen to whatever inner torment keeps him up at night and return to his tent. Then the commander heaves another sigh.

“I apologize, Your Worship. It seems the past weeks have finally caught up with me.”

 _Your Worship? Is now the time to be so formal?_ “Finally?”

“It’s easier not to think when danger is breathing down your neck. Train the recruits, protect the Inquisition and the people, close the Breach, survive Corypheus, survive the mountains. Didn’t have time to think. But now… now I have time to do nothing but think.”

“I know.”

The lull that falls between them is easier to bear but the commander is still restless, twitching and fidgeting while keeping his gaze fixed on some distant point. He seems on the verge of speaking so Maxwell waits, wondering if Cullen is going to open up about whatever’s bothering him or bid the Inquisitor a good night.

“Do you wonder about the consequences? About the things that happen because you made a decision, a choice?”

He almost wants to laugh. “Like what happened if I went to Therinfal instead? Maybe the templars would all be here instead of somewhere out there with Corypheus. But if I didn’t go to Redcliffe, I never would’ve found out about the Venatori and Corypheus’s plans.”

“I’m not… blaming you for that. We knew so little and Enchanter Fiona came to you while the Lord Seeker abandoned us. If only someone there knew, if only someone got away from Therinfal to warn us, to say something… but it’s too late now.”

The commander is struggling with something. “What is it?”

Cullen sighs. “I’ve been asking Barris about his time at Therinfal and how the red lyrium was distributed, who was behind it. Samson and I… shared quarters at the Gallows back in Kirkwall. He was a good man but there was always… he was always toeing the line in some fashion. Then Knight-Commander Meredith threw him out and he ended up in Lowtown begging for coin and lyrium dust. I used to… I was so embarrassed to see him every time I walked Lowtown. I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t shape up and find a job when Kirkwall is always hiring. Anything to get him off the streets. Anything to stop embarrassing the rest of us.”

He rakes shaking fingers through his hair. “I never stopped to talk to him. Never stopped to help him. Lately, all I can think about is what if, what if I did something? What if I did something about the templars the Chantry dismissed, discarded, tossed aside? You learn later what happens when you’ve been taking lyrium for too many years and you accept it as your sacrifice in service to the Chantry and the Maker, but if I had helped Samson, if I’d given him coin, gotten him off the streets… would that have changed anything? Would that have stopped him from turning to Corypheus and corrupting other templars? There were so many things I didn’t do and Maker, I can’t stop thinking about them.”

Oswald was the one who talked about what became of older templars. He told Maxwell they became addled by lyrium, losing their abilities and faculties as they fell under the lyrium’s sway. Hildred showed him her philter but never said anything about her dwindling supply of lyrium or how it drove her and Oswald to pilfer from abandoned chantries. Templars coped by relying on each other for comfort and support, she said, but that sort of camaraderie fell apart with the onset of the war. It explained why lyrium-hungry templars were just as dangerous as paranoid mages.

“We have former templars here,” Maxwell ventures. “If you couldn’t help Samson then, you can help templars like him now.”

“I don’t know if I’m the right person for it,” Cullen says quietly. He abruptly straightens and clears his throat, suddenly self-conscious. “I shouldn’t bother you with this, Your Worship. My apologies.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Maxwell replies, confused.

“Still, this isn’t something you should worry over. I - I’ll go - good night, Inquisitor.” Cullen quickly walks away.

Maxwell watches the commander enter the gatehouse, bewildered. The man isn’t easily rattled but this conversation did take an intensely personal turn. Maxwell lingers on the bridge, remembering Varric write about a Samson who could only be found in Lowtown at night, who smuggled out mage children who feared the Gallows, who donned battered templar armor to try to get back into the knight-commander’s good graces. He should ask Varric about Samson, get his viewpoint on the man who’s now supposedly in charge of Corypheus’s templars.

Once his skin starts prickling from the cold, Maxwell returns to the library tower. He glances up at a library alcove while crossing the atrium and returns to his tent with similarly little fanfare. He stares up at the canvas roof for another hour, trying to remember what happened when Hildred and Oswald started rationing their lyrium, how it made them weak, nauseous, and temperamental. And what of someone like Samson, cast out of the Templar Order to beg for scraps and pinches of dust? What did Corypheus offer him, lyrium? Was that really all it took?

He wakes abruptly to the sound of loud hammering and creaking wheels rolling over worn cobblestone. Rubbing gritty sleep from his eyes, he slowly sits up. There’s a weight on his legs and he stares at the two books stacked on top of the blankets. He runs his fingers over the embossed letters on the cover of _Ferelden: Folklore and History_ and smiles, then lurches to his feet when an agent clears her throat outside the tent.

* * *

Maxwell couldn’t protest when Josephine showed him his new quarters at the top of the other tower attached to the keep. There is a fireplace, massive windows covered in rusted latticework, and a balcony wrapping around the structure. The stone walls are bare and the corners are still dusty; there’s something almost romantic about this incredibly ancient and spartan room and he spends a few minutes turning in place, staring at the high ceiling, the doors hiding a storage room and the latrine, the fireplace, and then turns to Josephine.

“Where am I supposed to sleep?”

Actual furnishings won’t arrive for at least another week, she explains apologetically, and he wonders what sort of garish Orlesian finery she intends to decorate the main hall with. 

“You are the Inquisitor now,” Josephine reminds him when she notices his hesitance. “With the title and rank come certain privileges and expectations to meet. Acting the part may be the only way to gain audiences with certain nobles.”

“Why do they care where I sleep?” he asks. “Don’t they have better things to do?”

“Perhaps, but you are a Trevelyan. You know how particular and petty we can get.”

“I’m fairly certain you’re capable of dismantling entire houses if you decide to feel petty, Josephine,” he says.

She laughs, face reddening. “You give me too much credit.” She makes a note on her writing desk. “Now then. Lady Buttlefort is still waiting for a letter she can give to your family….”

Over the course of the day, workers bring in a cot, a simple table, a crooked chair, and several candelabra to light the room. Compared to the tents most others were staying in down in the courtyard, the new quarters are downright luxurious. And yet, Maxwell spends the first night tossing and turning in the cot, uncomfortable with the quiet and solitude. He’d gotten so used to falling asleep to the low voices and quiet footsteps, the faint glow of campfires and torches; even when growing up a solitary child in the Trevelyan estate, he slept to the quiet footsteps of the servants and guards that walked the hallways. 

The moons are sliding westward when he finally goes out to the balcony with a thin blanket around his shoulders and sits, watching the patrols on the battlements and the bright carpet of stars above them all. He goes back inside to sleep when the horizon starts to lighten.

The second night, after an eventful day involving collapsed scaffolding and the discovery of a dusty vault under the main hall, he bolts upright with a cry and looks around frantically, searching for survivors. It takes an agonizingly long time for him to realize that he’s not in Haven, buried under stone and snow with the rest of the Inquisition. He nearly falls out of the cot and staggers out to the balcony, gasping sharply at the cold mountain air buffeting him, and looks down at the Inquisition sleeping in the courtyard or walking along the wall.   
They’re alive. They’re safe. He saved them after all.

But what about the next time?

Maxwell searches through his belongings and pulls on his dusty coat. He stares at the ceremonial sword leaning on the wall in a bare corner of the room, wishing his right arm is already healed, and then heads downstairs to the main hall. Scaffolding still dominates it but the fireplace has been put to use and a few tables have been pushed up against the wall on one side. Captain Katarin nods to him as he passes by and others salute mutely, no judgment in their eyes.

He doesn’t want to chance the library in his state and he can’t exactly go around crossing blades with people so he goes to the door on the right. It groans as he pushes it open and he makes a mental note to have the hinges cleaned and oiled. The door leads to the small courtyard nestled in next to the keep. Perhaps it was a garden once but whatever grew here had withered away long ago, leaving behind hard dirt, weeds, and bone-dry trees. 

He sits here for what seems like hours, trying to imagine what this courtyard looked like once, who walked these halls so many years ago. A healer steps out of one of the rooms across the small yard and yawns while carefully shutting the door. She mutters about the lack of dried embrium while heading up the stairs to the next floor, never noticing the Inquisitor sitting on a nearby bench.

Maxwell finally gets up when his arm and sides start aching painfully from the cold, and he grimaces, presses his left hand to his side while walking back inside the hall. The nearest soldier immediately reaches for him but he waves the man off.

“I’m all right,” he insists at the skeptical look on the soldier’s weatherworn face. “I’m all right.”

Captain Katarin has an equally odd and disbelieving look on her face but only bids him a good night when he enters the tower. Maxwell has to stop halfway up the stairs, winded, and his mending ribs creak in protest. Inactivity is making him soft but he still can’t do anything until the healers tell him his arm has fully set and healed. He’s stuck in one place, caught in limbo while the world watches and waits for his very first act as the Inquisitor.

He continues up the stairs to his quarters, and immediately stops. A low fire burns in the fireplace when Maxwell never lit it before and there’s a faint scent in the air that he can’t place. He looks around but nothing else in the room appears to be out of place.

Except for the book on the rickety wooden table. He turns the book over in his hand and then opens it to tilt its title page towards the firelight. 

“‘Tales of the Destruction of Thedas’,” he murmurs while something warm flickers and flares in his chest. “By Brother Genitivi.”

* * *

He needs to talk to Dorian again. 

He tells himself this whenever he enters the library tower but somehow he always ends up reading a book or asking Helisma questions while surreptitiously watching the mage help sort the crates of books shipping in every other day. He can never bring himself to approach Dorian’s chosen alcove to ask, not when Dorian avoids even handing him the books that keep appearing in his quarters.

Right now Maxwell sits in one of the chairs all around the floor, reading a scroll Minaeve sent from Kinloch Hold and glancing at Dorian every other paragraph. Dorian continues sorting through a crate of books donated by a small Orlesian chantry at a leisurely pace, unaware that he’s being watched. Tyrdda’s staff leans against the wall next to the window, its stone gleaming in the sunlight.

“Careful with the drooling, Inquisitor.”

Maxwell twitches. “Varric.”

The title sounds awkward on the dwarf’s lips, too cumbersome and heavy. “Inquisitor” sits uneasily on Maxwell’s shoulders, an ill-fitting mantle, and nothing in the library can tell him how to make the mantle his, how to make it _fit_.

“Got a minute?” Varric asks. He’s looking around, shifty-eyed, and that takes Maxwell’s attention completely off the scroll on his lap and the mage across the floor.

“I do. What is it?”

Satisfied with whatever he’s looking for ,Varric says, “Remember what I said about asking people about Corypheus? Well, they agreed to come here to talk to you - and only you.”

“They’re Grey Wardens?” Maxwell asks. “How’d you find-”

“I have my ways. Anyway, they’re here now. I told them to meet us at the wall. Let’s go before someone notices.”

Maxwell quirks an eyebrow. “What’s with the secrecy?”

Varric shrugs. “You’ll see.”

He carefully rolls the scroll up before returning it to Helisma. The tranquil doesn’t notice him, engrossed in writing notes on a sliver of red lyrium Cassandra had chipped off a templar back at Haven. Maxwell stares at the gleaming red shard while something prickles uncomfortably at the back of his throat, and quickly follows Varric downstairs. He doesn’t see Dorian looking up from the pages of an old tome with a cracking leather spine to watch him pass by.

The keep is crowded with scaffolding, workers, and visitors tentatively picking their way around the construction. Mother Giselle holds court at one end of the hall and Josephine at another. Few notice Maxwell and Varric slip past in all the chaos.

“... allowed to be here? Does nobody think he’s feeding information on us? On the Inquisition?”

“Did you forget him saving Ronnie’s fool arse back at Haven? You don’t go out of your way to nearly die just to get close to him. Plus, who better than a Vint to know how Vints think-”

Maxwell whirls around, searching for the gossips, and nearly runs into the scaffolding. Grimacing, face hot and hoping nobody saw him, he darts around the wooden poles and catches up to Varric just outside the keep. Varric had stopped to survey the courtyard but Maxwell doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

“Let’s cut through the Herald’s Rest,” Varric suggests.

Scattered voices call out to Maxwell on the way to the tavern; he nods jerkily to each person and tugs on his gloves like that’ll hide the anchor’s unearthly glow. The attention rattles him even more and he nearly runs past Varric into the the tavern to escape the eyes, the voices, the name.

The Iron Bull and his Chargers are already inside for drinks when it’s not even noon; they’re sitting at the tables near the stairs. The Iron Bull is lounging in a chair, chipped tankard in hand and eye on Maryden, who’s tuning her lute while humming under her breath. Several of the Chargers are playing cards and betting with conkers, and Krem is… standing on a chair in the corner, peering at the ceiling.

“Inquisitor,” he says with a salute when Maxwell stops to stare. “Don’t mind me. Just collecting cobwebs for Adan.”

“Right.”

Sera is lounging on the second floor, leaning on the rail and counting heads. She gives Maxwell a lazy salute and then declares. “She’s eyeing me up. I just know it.”

“Who?”

She points downward and loudly whispers, “ _Her._ ”

He blinks at her and then turns away, deciding to ask her later if she means Maryden. He takes three steps after Varric to the next flight of stairs and someone calls out, “Your Worship!”

Maxwell looks at Varric apologetically while the person - a new recruit, perhaps; he’s never seen the man before now - introduces himself as Sutherland. He looks eerily like Oswald when one ignores the lack of scarring, the shorn head, and a notched left ear. It’s probably what keeps Maxwell rooted to the spot while the man tells him about the highwaymen he saw waylaying supply wagons and shadowing Inquisition patrols guarding the winding mountain path to Skyhold.

“Is there anything I can do to help, Your Worship?” Sutherland asks, grasping his hands tightly to stop from fidgeting.

“Well….” He glances at the waiting dwarf. “Tell one of the soldiers that you need to speak to either Seeker Cassandra or Commander Cullen, that you have information for them.”

“Yes, Your Worship. Thank you!” Sutherland trips over a chair while hurrying down the stairs and mutters a steady stream of apologies until he’s gone.

“Huh,” Varric says. “Come on. Shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

On the top floor, Cole is sitting on the railing, feet swinging back and forth, while watching the activity down below. Maxwell’s stomach twists at the sight; he looks like a slight breeze from the open door can topple him and send him plummeting three stories to his death. But he’s also a spirit, Solas explained, and wouldn’t follow the normal rules of mortality, not that anyone wants to see exactly how.

“Hey, Kid,” Varric calls out to Cole. 

Cole’s wide-brimmed hat tilts in their direction. “They want her to come and see. Come and see, come and see. Can you hear it? He watches her. He keeps her safe. She won’t answer the call.”

Varric stares at him. “Well, you’re not wrong.”

Despite its location high in the Frostbacks, the air within Skyhold’s walls is warm like Tantervale’s summers. On the battlements, the wind is brisk and strong, and Maxwell hunches against it while following Varric to a rundown tower at the junction of two walls. He sees people on the walkway around the tower, someone with a shock of white hair and another in the Warden blue and silverite.

“Varric….” Maxwell slowly says as they approach. The prickling under his skin is of a different sort, slow-growing shock and anxious anticipation over who has come to Skyhold.

He can make out three people now. An elf with deep brown skin and white hair paces the walkway while a dark-haired light brown woman in the Warden colors leans on the wall and watches activity down in the courtyard. Next to her is a tall man, darker like he’d been out in the sun for too long, wearing a distinctly Kirkwaller suit of armor. They’re obviously family, perhaps even sister and brother.

“Yeah. It’s them.”

The elf - _Fenris_ , wearing a dark fur-lined cloak that fails to hide his lyrium lines - sees them first and says something to his companions. They turn around.

“Varric!” The Warden runs to him as he ambles down the steps and nearly sweeps him off his feet. As it is, she wraps herself around him, beaming.

“Hey, Sunshine,” Varric says, laughing, affectionately patting the back of her head. “Glad to see you’re okay.”

“Once we got your letter, everything made more sense,” she says, sitting back on the heels of her feet. Up close, she looks older than her years, fine lines in her face giving away what she had seen and been through. “Still can’t block it all out but I know how to protect myself now.”

“Good.”

Maxwell hangs back, watching and not quite believing what his wide eyes are seeing, what his ears are hearing. The person Varric called Sunshine in his book is Bethany Hawke, and the man walking up to the dwarf behind her is-

“Hawke,” Varric says and there’s a distinct shift in his voice, full of warmth and love for his closest friend. “Surprised no one stopped you on the way up here.”

“Oh they tried but someone said ‘nightingale watches’ and everyone scattered. Wonder why.”

“Of course she’d know,” Varric mutters. “See, this is why she’s the spymaster and not me. At least she didn’t tip off Seeker.”

“Is that the person who took you to Haven?” Bethany asks.

“Yeah, but you’re not here to listen to me gripe about her.” Varric beckons Maxwell down the stairs to join their little reunion. “Inquisitor, Hawke. Hawke, Inquisitor.”

Manners kick in and Maxwell bows in greeting. “Champion.”

“Well met, Inquisitor,” Hawke says. Sharp brown eyes sweep over him, pausing on the faint green glow on his left hand. “Varric told me all about you, especially your encounter with Corypheus.”

“Still can’t believe he survived what you did to him,” Varric says, “but His Inquisitorialness described our darkspawn friend perfectly, down to his ugly mug and overblown claims of godhood.”

Fenris snorts. “That’s the best you could do?” He sounds as dry as Varric wrote him, though the deep timbre is unexpected.

“I’ve been busy, if you haven’t noticed. Give me some credit for coming up with one for him,” Varric replies with a huff. “So, what did you find out?”

Hawke glances at Bethany. “Think it’s better if she explains it.”

She looks around first to see if anybody else is nearby, then warily says, “You have to understand, Inquisitor. We Wardens have secrets we share with no one, burdens that are ours and ours alone. But Corypheus… is too much of a threat to all of us, even the Wardens.”

“But he’s darkspawn,” Maxwell says. “Isn’t your order more capable of stopping them than anybody else?”

“He’s no ordinary darkspawn. When my brother and I confronted him years ago, he… he has an effect on the Wardens. If you’re not careful, you’ll fall under his thrall or lose your mind.”

“How is that possible?”

Bethany grimaces. “I’m afraid I can’t explain that. What I can do is explain why the Wardens disappeared. A few months before the Conclave took place, the senior Wardens began hearing something called the Calling. It’s a consequence of the ritual joining all Warden recruits undergo.”

“What does it do?” Maxwell asks. No book, no personal account, no Genitivi essay ever explained the inner workings of the Warden order, and Blackwall was incredibly evasive the few times he asked.

“It’s… hard to explain, but it’s one of the reasons why we know when a Blight is starting. There are people who still refuse to believe that there really was a Blight in Ferelden but all Wardens knew what was happening.”

“Don’t need rituals to understand why there’s a darkspawn horde on your doorstep,” Hawke adds darkly.

The mood sours immediately. A pained look crosses Bethany’s face as she continues talking. “At first, only the senior Wardens were affected so we assumed it was just an unusually large pocket of darkspawn that survived the Blight. But right before the Breach appeared, we all started hearing the Calling, which is impossible because one just ended ten years ago. It’s not possible for another Blight to follow so quickly. And in the middle of this… war between the templars, mages, and Chantry?” She shakes her head. “How could Thedas survive that?”

“Blackwall never said anything,” Maxwell says, glancing at an equally bemused Varric. The man never showed signs of suffering from this so-called Calling, never hinted that he could sense that something sinister and terrible was happening.

“He can’t tell you, Inquisitor,” Bethany says patiently. “I told you, there are things only we Wardens should know.”

“And yet, the Wardens are completely content to withhold secrets from each other,” Fenris remarks.

“I’m sensing a story here,” Varric says. “What did I miss?”

Bethany heaves a sigh and drags a hand through her windswept dark hair. “The Wardens were summoned to Montsimmard over the possibility of yet another Blight, but Stroud was suspicious. He thought Warden-Commander Clarel was overreacting when he knew her to be much more levelheaded and sensible. He told me and the others under his command to stay behind. We waited for weeks, then we received a message from him telling us to go into hiding. Wardens were searching for us and others who didn’t respond to Clarel’s summons. We scattered and I went to my brother.”

“Did Stroud say what happened at Montsimmard?” Maxwell asks.

“He wrote me another letter saying Clarel was upset with his refusal to see the Sixth Blight for what it was and ordered him apprehended. You see, when a Blight is coming, you either help us or you stay out of our way. He was getting in her way.”

“Shit, that’s not good,” Varric says. “So, what? You think Corypheus had something to do with all of this?”

“Like Larius said, he’s no ordinary darkspawn,” Hawke says. “He survived me and then went and broke the sky. And since he can affect Wardens, it’s not hard to guess why this Warden-Commander started acting the way she did.”

“But what does he want with the Wardens, if he’s behind this?” Maxwell wonders. “Even if he has some sort of… effect on them, they’re still Wardens and he’s still darkspawn.”

“No idea, Inquisitor. Best thing to do is have Stroud tell you himself. He wants to meet.”

“Where is he now?”

“He’s going to Crestwood,” Bethany says. “That’s all I know.”

“Why not come to Skyhold-”

“He’s being hunted by other Wardens,” she says. “It’s better if he stays out of sight. We’ll meet you there-”

“What? No, you’re not,” Varric interrupts. “You’re staying out of this one.”

“How?” Hawke asks. “We’re - _I’m_ responsible for freeing Corypheus from that prison. And Bethany’s a Warden. You can’t expect me to not do something to protect her.”

“I can look after myself, thanks,” Bethany mutters.

“And I’m the one who told you about the Carta. But fine, if you want to stick your nose into this mess, then be my guest. Not like I can stop anyone who swings around a sword as tall as he is.”

After that, conversation flows more easily though not as long as Maxwell would like. Hawke answers his questions with good humor, punctuated by Fenris’s dry remarks and Bethany’s fond exasperation. He flies into mock outrage when one of Maxwell’s questions reveals Varric’s heavy embellishment of the truth and Bethany just shakes her head when Varric tries to explain his creative decisions. Fenris isn’t prone to conversation like the Hawkes are but still interjects with his own skewed memories of certain events, usually at Hawke’s expense.

Hawke is starting a tall tale about some misadventure involving Guard Captain Aveline, Captain - “Or is it Admiral now? She did say she got herself a big hat and an even bigger boat.” - Isabela, and the infamous apostate Anders when Varric peers down into the courtyard and hisses.

“Think Seeker’s onto me. Hey, Inquisitor, why don’t you go distract her while I get this lot out of Skyhold and go hide somewhere?”

Bethany clears her throat. “Actually, I was hoping to talk to Blackwall first.”

“He’s usually at the stables on the other side,” Maxwell offers. “Did you know him?”

“Never met him but I have heard of him. He’s a good man. Not surprised he volunteered to help you. I just wonder how he’s managing… everything.”

Maxwell follows Varric and the Hawkes along the battlements, hanging back so as to not intrude. He watches their easy camaraderie, the way Bethany beams like the sun at whatever Varric says while Hawke adds a sly quip every few seconds, and is reminded strongly of his own family and how they bonded over stories of home and the Ostwick Circle while traveling north to safety. Something small and hot flares in his chest. It feels like envy.

Hawke suddenly throws his head back and laughs at something Varric said, and Maxwell remembers the gossip about the improbable rise of a lowly Ferelden with Amell blood in his veins. No one could believe Kirkwall was so desperate that it turned to him to save the city from the invading Qunari, especially when he then helped the mages revolt against the Chantry. But watching Kirkwall’s Champion and hearing his stories in his own words, Maxwell can finally understand how Hawke earned his mantle and notoriety. Hawke doesn’t look as heroic and handsome as Varric and Maxwell’s imagination made him out to be but the man _overflows_ with an intense charisma and confidence that compels and draws Maxwell in like a whirlpool. No wonder Kirkwall paid attention when he started making a name for himself. No wonder Cassandra and Leliana sought him out.

Maxwell wonders if Hawke would’ve made a better Inquisitor.

“If I may, Inquisitor,” Fenris suddenly says, startling him. He didn’t realize Hawke’s companion was walking beside him, so lost was he in his thoughts. “There’s something I must ask.”

He eyes the elf, gaze lingering on the white tattoos for longer than is polite. Something keeps prickling at the back of his head but he doesn’t know what.

“What is it?”

“I was told a mage from Tevinter joined your Inquisition.” Fenris speaks acidly, not that Maxwell can blame him. “Are you aware of what you invited within your walls?”

He tenses, trying not to look frantically at Varric for help. Varric didn’t hide Fenris’s hatred of magisters and magic in his book, and now Fenris himself is pressing questions about Dorian. What is Maxwell supposed to say?

“He volunteered,” he decides to say, careful to keep his tone neutral. “He wanted to stop other Tevinter mages from destroying the world.”

“Will wonders ever cease,” Fenris says flatly. “Do you truly believe that? Do you truly think that _that_ is his only intention, that there isn’t some ulterior motive? Magisters always want more power and influence, and there’s no better place to find that than in the heart of the Inquisition.”

He swears Varric is muttering about their tense exchange - _“Not this shit again.”_ \- and wonders what the dwarf wrote in his letter to Hawke. How much information did Varric divulge on the Inquisition’s short tumultuous life? What should Maxwell say that won’t anger Hawke’s companion?

“He’s proven himself, to me and to the Inquisition,” Maxwell finally says. He thinks of a doomed future, of many nights knee-deep in snow and spells, of an oft-expressed longing to right terrible wrongs, of a desperate kiss goodbye. “I don’t doubt his intentions. And his father’s the magister, not him.”

Fenris watches him with narrowed eyes and then suddenly smiles. “Fair enough.”

He doesn’t say more, which is strange considering what Varric wrote about him. Maxwell watches Fenris nervously for the next hour, wondering what else the elf might say or ask. Fenris, however, seems content to make small talk with Hawke and Varric while Bethany discussed the Calling with Blackwall. Later, after they slip out of Skyhold and Maxwell rescues Varric from Cassandra’s wrath, he asks.

“Despite what you heard - and this is coming from me, the author - that book isn’t the complete truth. Some of it’s embellishment, some of it got tweaked, and some of it’s simply not there. Makes for better reading,“ Varric says. “Broody doesn’t hate blindly or go straight for the heart without thinking it through - unless we’re talking slavers.”

“I’m not arguing that,” Maxwell says. “I’m just… surprised he didn’t say more.”

“Good thing, too. Back then, he and Blondie nearly came to blows over magic and mages and Circles every other week, and do you know how many times he upset Daisy? Sometimes I wonder how Hawke managed to keep us from killing each other.” Varric shakes his head, smiling wistfully about another time and place. “He’ll never trust mages but he stood with Hawke when the rebellion started and didn’t say a word when Hawke let Blondie disappear. That, and being around Bethany probably taught him to be more tactful about this shit. The _point_ I’m trying to make is books don’t really do people justice, no matter how well they’re written.” 

“Even your books?”

“Even mine.”

* * *

Maxwell learns later that Cullen had decided to put Sutherland in with the patrols and that the new recruit has been an asset in reducing ambushes and attacks on the winding road through the Frostbacks. There is talk now of constructing watchtowers all along the road and at the base of the mountains to ensure the safety of the travelers, especially the merchants and nobles.

“We have their support,” Leliana says, watching new recruits train in the courtyard, “but there are many more that still need convincing.”

“I thought we had allies,” Maxwell says uncertainly. He can never keep the names straight, no matter how many times Josephine utters them.

“We have a few,” Leliana says, “but we need more. They don’t even need to be allies. All I need is to be able to compel them to help us when we need it. Josie would rather you be present when she greets the visiting nobility. The presence of the new Inquisitor can and will be enough to sway a few to donate to our coffers or pledge themselves to our cause.” She looks at him slyly and gives him a blatant onceover. “Be prepared for the inevitable dressing game.”

He grimaces and she laughs. He quickly changes topics. “What about Crestwood? Have you heard anything?”

“My agents don’t all have wings, Inquisitor,” Leliana says. “They _should_ arrive within the next week. The fighting may have died down but I still receive reports of mage and templar cells harassing travelers on the Imperial Highway. It’ll take time.” She eyes his right arm. “Enough time for you to lose that splint, I think.”

This involves Adan finally proclaiming that he can take off the splint and do whatever he likes so long as he takes it easy the first two weeks. Maxwell steps outside the infirmary and stares at his bare right arm; it’s starkly pale and soft compared to his left and marked with still-fading scars. He probes it carefully, holding his breath. There’s still a bit of pain but it’s finally mended and he can start training in earnest for what’s to come. 

Adan had stared at him balefully when he brought it up, however.

“No,” he said flatly while an amused Elan Ve’mal, Adan’s colleague, stood by with the remnants of the splint. “Two weeks. Then let that one-eyed Qunari toss you around the courtyard and ruin my work to your heart’s content. Your Worship.”

Maxwell tries, but the very next night he bolts awake, sweating and breathing hard, and terrified for his life. It takes an agonizingly long time for him to realize that he’s alive and that upsets him as much as the nightmare did. He desperately needs something to take his mind off of it. He looks at the books on the table but reading is furthest from his harried mind right now. Instead he turns to the ceremonial sword still leaning against the wall. It’s a longsword and he hasn’t held one in at least a month, but he needs to do _something_.

He crawls out of the cot and halfheartedly considers prodding the embers in the fireplace before searching for his gloves and coat by moonlight. He then picks up the sword and gives it an experimental swing. It’s lighter than he used to, lacking the reach and heft of a greatsword, but it will do. He loops the scabbard’s belt around his waist and heads downstairs to the main hall. 

The latest addition to Skyhold is a large practice ring in the upper courtyard. Few people are wandering the grounds at this hour, leaving Maxwell with it to himself. He still waits five, ten, fifteen minutes, hoping that somehow, for whatever reason, Dorian will step out of the shadows with his staff and an offer of a distraction. 

No one appears.

Maxwell hefts the sword in his hands, testing its balance as well as his right arm. He’ll have to adjust to the weapon but his trainer taught him well; it’s his right arm that needs work. He leans the blade against the wooden fence lining the ring and slowly limbers up, imagining what Carrine would shout if he threw himself into practice off of weeks of inactivity. After fifteen minutes he picks up the ceremonial sword and takes a deep breath, recalls the first steps, the first forms he was taught, and moves. The motions come to mind easily but his body is slower, sluggish, and sweat breaks out on his forehead as he follows Carrine’s instructions in his head. Eventually - too soon if his trainer was here - he slows to a stop and bends over, heaving for air. His right arm trembles and aches and he has to clench his hand to still it. He limps to the well next to the armory, his sides protesting every step, and he leans against it, closes his eyes to feel the tremors, the burning muscles and pounding heart. 

_You’re alive. You’re alive and you’re here and you’re alive, you’re_ alive.

When his legs no longer tremble, he drinks from the well and washes his face clean with the frigid water. He returns to the keep, silently cursing every step he has to climb to reach the doors. He’s out of breath, lungs stinging and thighs burning, by the time he reaches the top and he waits outside the doors to compose himself. He can’t let the soldiers inside see him like this.

The soldiers guarding the hall stare at the ceremonial sword on his shoulder instead, making him even more self-conscious. He stares straight ahead at Captain Katarin near the dais, who’s frowning at the library tower door. He wonders what news Leliana’s agents are bringing to the rookery at this late hour. Word from Crestwood?

“Ser,” Captain Katarin says as soon as she sees him, and then looks mortified. 

“Captain,” he replies. “All is well?”

“Yes, Your Worship.”

He grimaces. “Captain, can you… please not-”

“Oh. Apologies, Your - apologies, ser. Good night.”

A book and a crackling fireplace are waiting for him when he enters his quarters. Maxwell looks at the fire, wondering what thoughts ran through the mind of the mage who lit it, and smiles bitterly while picking up the tome.

* * *

“ _Again!_ ”

Maxwell slams his shield into the Iron Bull’s and pretends to brace himself when the Qunari pushes back; he abruptly gives way, pivots, and aims at the Iron Bull’s exposed side. The Iron Bull quickly blocks him and he staggers back from the impact. Wiping sweat off his brow, he breathes deeply and readies for another charge.

After six nights at the practice ring by himself, he decides to make good on a promise he made to the Iron Bull months ago. Soldiers, mages, and Chargers, and the occasional visiting noble now get to watch the newly named Inquisitor try to keep up with the Iron Bull’s punishing pace every day. His lungs burn, blood pounds in his head, his body aches in the worst ways possible, and he loves every second of it. He loves feeling _alive_.

After the session, he leans on the fence and drinks deeply from his waterskin before pouring the rest of the contents over his head. He grins at the Iron Bull, water and sweat dripping from his face, and pushes his hair back. “Could give my trainer a run for her money.”

“That so? I’d like to meet her.”

“You’ll lose,” Maxwell says and the Iron Bull laughs.

They pick up their equipment and leave the practice ring to the soldiers. Maxwell thinks about heading back to his quarters but the Iron Bull points to the Herald’s Rest. “You coming? First round’s on me.”

Inside, Cabot sets two tankards on the counter with a short greeting and leaves a few silvers richer. Maxwell drinks while glancing around the tavern; soldiers and mages occupy most of the seats, drinking, eating, and talking while pointing to notices tacked up on the walls and beams. He leans over to read the nearest one; someone’s putting together an archery contest and specifically excluded Varric and Bianca from it. He huffs a laugh.

“You know,” the Iron Bull says, wiping foam from his upper lip. “Today, I was asked to assess you while beating you back into shape.”

“Who wanted to know?” Maxwell asks.

“Cullen, mostly. Apparently someone expressed concern about your image.”

“My image? What’s there to look at?”

“You tell me,” the Iron Bull drawls, slowly and intentionally dragging his eye over Maxwell, and then grins when he looks elsewhere, desperate to avoid the attention. “But they’re not wrong. Right now you’re a… _bas_.”

“A what?”

“You’re nothing, incomplete, unfinished. Nobody knows what to expect of you. If you’re just starting out or a spy that’s fine, but you’re the leader of the Inquisition. People need to know what to expect when you show up on their doorstep.”

“This isn’t enough?” Maxwell says, turning his left hand over to let the anchor flare briefly in the space between them. 

“That means you’re the Herald of Andraste. But who are you as the _Inquisitor_? Cullen asked me to see if you need a specialist to train you. I have a few ideas but I want to know what you think.”

He shrugs, rubbing absentmindedly at a bruise on his left forearm. “What does beating me around the courtyard have to do with my image?”

“People see Andraste as a prophet, the Maker’s Bride who wept for her people and pleaded with the Maker to forgive and help them. But wasn’t she also a warrior? Didn’t she fight the Imperium and nearly win?”

He raises an eyebrow. “How do you know so much about her?”

The Iron Bull drains his tankard and gestures to Cabot to fill it. “It’s my job to know these things. Need context when I report to the Ben-Hassrath. Point is, we need the Inquisitor to lead us to victory and _not_ by dropping mountains on the enemy’s head.”

“So he thinks I need a trainer? How will that help?”

“Think about who we’ll be fighting. We’re up against Vints, templars, demons, darkspawn. People out there know how to fight them and they can teach you. Remember, you’re the leader. You need to inspire, on and off the battlefield.”

“To inspire,” Maxwell echoes. “How would that work if I… decide to learn the way of the templars? Won’t that send the wrong message to the mages here? To Fiona?”

“Maybe, but templars know how to fight magisters and demons,” the Iron Bull says. “Remember, most people don’t know who you really are. They only have an idea of you. They won’t care if you choose to learn from a templar. They’ll care that you’re Andraste’s Herald and that you’re doing everything you can to defeat Corypheus, even if it’s by sacrificing yourself so that the Inquisition lives. That’s why they’re here. They’re inspired by you and want to help.”

Maxwell stares into his ale, feeling the heavy weight of the future on his shoulders. When he steps outside Skyhold, he won’t be a Trevelyan but the Inquisitor, Andraste’s herald. He’ll be the only one standing between Corypheus and the rest of Thedas. All eyes will be on his every move, his every decision, and expect him to redefine everything that they know about the world.

He smiles tightly. “The Qun doesn’t really believe in this sort of thing, does it?”

“Ha, no. Doubt any of this would’ve happened if everybody lived under the Qun. But they’re not and that’s why we’re here talking about these things.”

 _Until the Qunari come south on their dreadnoughts again_ , Maxwell thinks. The Iron Bull said the invasion wasn’t happening anytime soon but that doesn’t mean it isn’t inevitable. However much Varric embellished _Tale of the Champion_ , his conversation with Hawke revealed just how terrifying and devastating the Kirkwall invasion was. A currently fractured Thedas has no hope of surviving that kind of carnage.

How did Tevinter manage? How did it not already buckle under from its constant warring with Seheron? Maxwell files that away as another question to ask Dorian later, whenever later is.

“I should go make my report,” the Iron Bull says. “Already have a Warden and a lot of former templars here, so I’m recommending he finds a breaker.”

“A what?”

“Breakers teach others how to become reavers. Break them in, so to speak.”

“I hope you’re joking.” He’s never met one but he heard of them. Reaversare bloodthirsty warriors with tempers like dragons and with the finesse and skill of uncouth barbarians. They’re not talked about in polite company. “That doesn’t sound very inspiring.”

“Well, think about what you’re trying to do. You want to inspire your allies to rally or your enemies to retreat? Choice is up to you, Boss, but with the way you fight, I think you’ll make a good reaver. Knowing how to channel your energy and rage will only help you in battle.”

“I’m not angry.”

The Iron Bull just looks at him like he knows something Maxwell doesn’t, finishes his tankard, and saunters out of the Herald’s Rest. Maxwell nurses the rest of his ale for another half-hour, wondering what the Iron Bull was looking for during their training sessions, and drains the tankard when Cabot starts giving him funny looks. He grimaces at the bitterly sour taste and asks the barkeep for a few apples before leaving the tavern. He bites into one while walking to the stables; Dennet acquired new horses for the Inquisition and he also hasn’t seen the “damned demon beast” in several days.

“You’re an undead horse, you’d know about demons,” Maxwell tells the Bog Unicorn conversationally while feeding a gray Forder a green apple. “What would they be more afraid of - a templar or a reaver? Or does it even matter?”

The Bog Unicorn huffs and turns its bony back on him to harass another Forder stabled next to it.

Late afternoon finds him in the library, reading Genitivi’s _Tales of the Destruction of Thedas_. Several pages into the first chapter, he had found notes in the margins, addendums and critiques and outright mockery of the Chantry scholar’s musings in a distinct voice; ever since, he’s been glancing surreptitiously at the mage on the other side of the tower every several pages, wondering how Dorian found the time when he’s been spending every waking moment organizing the library and earning Helisma’s permission to help her and Minaeve with their research.

He falls asleep while reading excessively extensive footnotes on where Brother Genitivi got his facts wrong on the origins of the First Blight, and wakes to the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows, drenching the old walls in fiery hues. Only Helisma is present, meticulously copying handwritten notes into a journal. A raven caws while flying into the rookery above them.

Maxwell slowly unfolds himself, grimacing as it aggravates every sore muscle and bruise he earned in the practice ring. He only notices the fabric around his shoulders when it slides to the floor while he gets out of the chair. He stares at it and then picks up the robes, traces the twisting snake embroidered across it with his thumb while looking around the floor again. His heart twists itself into knots as he folds the robes and places them in the armchair in Dorian’s alcove before leaving the tower.

* * *

“Dorian,” Maxwell says, finally. He briefly considers hiding _Tales of the Destruction of Thedas_ behind his back when the mage looks up from the stack of texts in his arms. “Can we talk?”

Dorian’s already wary expression goes blank, friendless, and Maxwell wants to scream. It’s been almost two months and he has yet to have a conversation with Dorian that isn’t brief and cautious, with an eye towards other people around them. Right now the book in his hand and back in his quarters are his only link to the mage who wandered outside Haven at night with him, and it’s not enough anymore. 

It never was.

“We can,” Dorian says. His gaze turns back to the shelves in front of him. “What do you have in mind, Inquisitor?”

He flinches - and Dorian notices, a frown forming on his face as he slowly pushes a book into its place. 

“You don’t have to call me that,” Maxwell says. He clenches his left hand and something flickers out of the corner of his eye like veilfire. “You know that.”

“It’s who you are now.” Dorian glances at something behind Maxwell and presses his lips tightly while stepping back.

“Ah, Your Worship?” someone inquires at his left elbow. “Lady Josephine calls for you. You were supposed to meet her… a quarter-hour ago?”

He remembers now. She asked earlier this morning while he was walking to the Undercroft to ask Harritt about a new sword. He holds back a frustrated sigh and looks at Dorian. “Another time?”

Dorian nods, looking vaguely apologetic, and turns to the bookcase. Maxwell reluctantly follows the messenger down the stairs to Solas’s atrium and across the main hall to Josephine’s office. It sits between the hall and a meeting room and has been suitably furnished to receive visitors of some repute. The fireplace is burning brightly, offering warmth and light, and the floor is covered with a tasteful yet conservative rug. The walls are lined with bookcases and small paintings; all that’s missing is a tapestry or two.

Josephine is standing next to her desk, a letter in hand, but she’s talking with a tailor and her two assistants. They look at Maxwell when he enters the office.

“Tell me I’m not here just so you can play dress up,” he says slowly.

Josephine smiles. “You’re not a child’s doll and yes, there are other matters I wish to discuss with you - but after she takes your measurements. Nobles and diplomats will be visiting to curry favors from us and you need to look your best to impress or intimidate them.”

“Everything I hoped to avoid by being born last,” Maxwell mutters and an assistant snorts with laughter. “Very well.”

Afterwards, Josephine beckons him to one of the cushioned chairs across from her desk, which looks to be on the verge of collapsing from the stacks of papers and folios on it. “Leliana will be here soon but she already knows what I’m about to tell you. It’s about Orlais.”

“Did something happen?” Maxwell asks. He doesn’t remember overhearing anyone say something new about the warring cousins.

“Not yet. But Leliana and I have been taking another look at your report about future events. For Orlais to fall the way it did after Empress Celene’s assassination, something must’ve happened to prevent Grand Duke Gaspard from taking the throne. I can only assume that it will be Corypheus’s doing. Even now, he may be working to undermine and weaken Orlais using this war. Are you aware of the most recent developments?

“Not exactly.”

While Josephine explains, two agents stop by to leave sealed letters on her desk. Then Leliana enters the room, seemingly unaware of the black feathers stuck to her cowl and hair.

“Good, you’re here,” Josephine says with a wide smile. She also leans over to pluck a wayward feather from Leliana’s braid. “As I was saying, arrangements are being made to hold peace talks under the guise of a grand masquerade. That was the original plan, anyway.”

“What happened?” Maxwell asks.

“The Breach. But both Empress Celene and Grand Duke Gaspard still plan to attend it, alone with many of their supporters and every noble of considerable influence.”

“A grand masquerade is the perfect place for Corypheus to strike,” Leliana says. “You warned them of it, no?”

“Of course. And as expected, neither plans to withdraw. I’m arranging for an invitation, Inquisitor. Your presence there will only strengthen our standing with Orlais and may deter the would-be assassin. You may even foil the plot in front of Celene and Gaspard, and have the favor of whoever emerges from the masquerade victorious.”

“That is also my hope,” Leliana says. “But if Josephine hasn’t told you yet, my agents are tracking what appears to be a network of elves that may be responsible for acts of sabotage against both armies. The elves’ intention appears to be to draw out hostilities and disrupt the current ceasefire. I’ve yet to determine who leads them or what they hope to accomplish. We may even encounter them at the masquerade.”

“But they’re not involved with Corypheus?” Maxwell asks.

“I highly doubt it.”

He nods slowly. “Then where is the masquerade taking place?”

“The Winter Palace at Halamshiral, about a year from now if nothing else catastrophic happens.” Leliana quirks a smile at the disbelieving look on his face. “It’s plenty of time for the two parties involved to continue observing the ceasefire and our own growing presence. I’m already positioning agents there to take advantage of it. Did you get that list of prospective attendees, Josie?”

“Not yet. Vivienne is providing names and I still have a few favors owed to me that should get us the rest.”

Leliana then pulls more missives from her hidden folds and places them on Josephine’s desk. “Cullen and I have been sending people to the Dales to keep an eye on the armies and any signs of Corypheus’s people. The ceasefire holds but something is happening out there. My agents are still investigating. I’ll inform you when I know more.”

“Anything else?” Maxwell asks, hoping she’ll catch on.

She smiles wryly. “The earliest I’ll hear back is within the week. Be ready, Inquisitor.”

* * *

He almost collides with Captain Katarin on his way out of the great hall and backs up with an apology. She takes in the harried look and the faint sheen of sweat, the sword and sash at his waist, and quickly steps aside. “He’s in the courtyard, ser.”

Maxwell flushes while she walks away. The other soldiers in the hall salute but otherwise ignore him as he quickly strides past. He still tugs on his gloves to make sure they’re on his hands and dimming the anchor.

The night sky above Skyhold is breathtaking, far better than the skies in Ostwick where starlight disappears behind sea fog and in Haven where all anyone could ever see was the Breach. This high up in the Frostbacks the stars carpeting the sky are especially bright but tonight they have to compete with the dazzling flare of spellcasting in the courtyard. Maxwell looks down from the top of the stairs at the lone mage in the practice ring and the few spectators gathered to watch from a safe distance.

They’re mages, he realizes. They’re all holding staffs and journals; they would periodically stop watching the spellcaster to huddle and whisper about something or another. What are they up to?

The young mages startle when Maxwell approaches, greet him hastily and with deference, and then stare wide-eyed at the newly forged greatsword on his shoulder.

Dorian stops when Maxwell steps inside the ring. The last spell sizzles in the air and he dismisses it with a gesture. He leans on Tyrdda’s staff and considers Maxwell; in the light of the staff’s focus stone, his face is flushed from exertion but he still looks as immaculate as ever. His outer robes are hanging from the fence and his left shoulder is bare, showing off the old demon-made scars. Dorian seems not to care that the other mages can see them. 

“Usually,” Dorian says casually, “people announce themselves before getting within range of a mage’s spells.”

“You won’t hurt me,” Maxwell says. His heart lurches at the surprise on Dorian’s face and the flicker of a pleased smile. He breathes deeply and gestures to his sword. “Thought you could use the company.”

“Perhaps.” Dorian glances at the other mages. “Though I think I already have it. But I’m always looking for a challenge.”

It’s so, so easy to fall into the normal routine, the teasing before barriers are cast and the duel begins. “Then you’ll have it.”

Dorian gestures to the other end of the practice ring with an exaggerated bow. The spectators glance at each other, confused, and someone loudly whispers, “Are they going to fight? Is that allowed?”

Maxwell gives his greatsword a few practice swings, acquainting himself with its heft and balance, and shifts his weight to the balls of his feet when Dorian casts the barrier. He’s already moving when the first fireball flies.

Dorian holds himself back at first, perhaps minding their audience - it wouldn’t look right for a Tevinter mage to try to obliterate the new Inquisitor, would it? - or the patrols walking the fortress grounds. Perhaps he feels guilty for the many unspoken words hanging in the space between them. He shows none of the same smart flair that Maxwell expects, letting him easily bypass the mage’s defenses and end the fight with an unceremonious shove with his shoulder.

“Now I know you can do better than that,” Maxwell says, lightly, tauntingly, and holds a hand out to Dorian.

“Oh very well. If you insist on a _real_ challenge,” Dorian replies loudly while letting himself be hauled back up. He picks up his staff and Maxwell backs away.

Frigid glyphs cover the ground and vanish, forcing Maxwell to rely on his memory and training while navigating the distance between them. He deflects a fireball with the wide flat of his blade, twists out of the way of a bright bolt of energy, and just barely avoids getting flung out of the ring when he slips and triggers an ice mine. Dorian bombards him with a fury of spells and he dances around them, flinching whenever a spell skids across the barrier protecting him from harm. The younger mages gasp audibly when he shrugs off the magical flames and lunges at Dorian with his sword’s pommel, stopping Dorian from generating a telekinetic burst. Dorian deflects the otherwise crippling blow and then blocks Maxwell’s next strike.

Enthusiastic cheers erupt from their small audience and from the top of the battlements. The sounds wash over the practice ring, blur and fade while sword and stave crack against each other and the air shivers with magic. Maxwell is coughing harshly while keeping Dorian from casting spells; the air is so thick with magic that it coats the inside of his mouth and tickles the back of his throat. He can almost _see_ it, a faint shimmer of purple following Dorian’s staff as he blocks Maxwell’s advances and tries to push him back.

Spells storm around them as they try to overwhelm the other. Tyrdda’s staff blazes under the moons, a blur of bright flame as Dorian spins the stave to counter and redirect Maxwell’s strikes, keeping him from landing a direct blow though they know he never would. With every passing minute, Maxwell finds he can read Dorian’s next moves more and more quickly in the subtle changes to his stance, in his repeated responses to certain forms, but Maxwell never uses that to take control of the field. He’s content to lock into this intense rhythm, the push and pull of a twisting dance where his strength and endurance try to outdo Dorian’s quick spells and quicker stave. Every blow is easily met and turned aside, and every motion, every step, every gesture and strike, is matched and responded to in kind.

This, Maxwell realizes, is more than the nightmares and the need to bond over a shared experience, more than the questions Dorian left unanswered for weeks and weeks and weeks. He falters at the thought and that throws Dorian off-stride. Maxwell barely manages to deflect a wildly cast bolt of energy and it rockets out of the ring to hit a window on the second floor of the Herald’s Rest.

They freeze. The window flings open and a frazzled Sera leans out. “You mind? Actual people trying to sleep!”

“Good morning,” Dorian says cheerfully. 

“No it’s not! Stop pretending. Why this? Why even now? You’re crazy. You mages are all crazy!”

“He’s not a mage.” Dorian points to a sheepish Maxwell.

“Don’t care. Don’t care, don’t care, don’t care, just shut it or go away or I make you, I swear.” She yanks the window closed and then opens it a second later to add, “Or else bees!”

She slams it shut again and the loud _crack_ echoes throughout the courtyard.

“Well,” Maxwell says eventually with a breathless laughter. “At least you didn’t set it on fire. She’ll never forgive you for that.”

“What is she threatening to do with bees?” Dorian wonders while turning away from the Herald’s Rest. He removes the remaining glyphs and dismisses the last traces of magic with a sweep of his staff before bowing to their confused audience. “Anyway. _That_ is how you fight someone trying to gut you with a sword.”

“But what about templars?” a mage asks doubtfully. “They do more than that, you know.”

“They can only suppress your connection to the Fade if they get close enough and have enough lyrium,” Maxwell says. At the looks of surprise on their faces, he adds, “Templars in my family. Just… don’t get too close to the fight. You’re at your best with distance between you and your opponent.”

The mages look at each other uneasily, clearly unused to the idea of confronting templars.

“Surely your Circles taught you how to defend yourselves?” Dorian asks.

“Not exactly,” someone says meekly.

“Maybe we should ask some of the ex-templars for help,” another mage says. “Just in case any of us runs into those red bastards.”

“Thank you, Your Worship,” the first mage says. She also nods to Dorian and herds her companions away.

Maxwell watches them file into one of Skyhold’s towers. “Is that what you were doing? Or did you just want an excuse to show off?”

“I do enjoy an enraptured audience,” Dorian says. He goes to the armory well; after a moment’s hesitation, Maxwell follows, not willing to call it a night. “But no. I… needed something to do and they just happened to wander into the courtyard. I believe they were investigating this fortress’s many secrets.”

“Sounds ominous. I’ll warn Fiona and Cullen if half the fortress suddenly appears on another mountain.”

He sits on the old mossy stone wall around the well, watching Dorian pull up and drink from the bucket before drenching his head in mountain water. Dorian leans on the wall and drags his hair out of his eyes, closes them like he’s collecting himself.

Maxwell waits.

“I know you have questions.”

He stills but his heart beats faster again, nervously, in his chest and in his head.

“Dorian,” he says and the mage visibly shivers, fingers curling against old stone. Half of his mind reasons that Dorian just dumped half a bucket of frigid water on his head but the other half knows the mage is reacting to _him_.

Just how long has Dorian been harboring feelings for him?

Dorian rubs his face with one hand and sighs. “I thought about lying. Blaming it on the moment, on being absolutely terrified of what you were about to do. But I _was_ terrified. I thought this was it, I was going to lose you to this harebrained absolutely terrible plan to stop my people’s worst legacy from destroying the world again. I was never going to have a chance so I took it when I could. Better than living with regret, you know. Except you came back and they named you Inquisitor.”

He laughs hollowly, with none of his fire. “I didn’t want to add to your troubles. It’s why I stayed away. Thought distance and time would make it... easier to forget but you make it impossible. Whenever I turn around, you’re always nearby, reading a book or talking to Helisma or the enchanter or your spymaster. Wherever I go, you always there, in the courtyard, the hall, in my - I kept seeing you everywhere. And now, here you are.”

The smile on his face is rigid, unreadable, and it just makes Maxwell angry. Dorian had been building a wall between them when all he wanted was to talk, to ask what went wrong, what Haven meant.

“You keep giving me books,” Maxwell ends up saying.

Dorian starts, clearly expecting something else. “I, well, you had a library in your cabin before… Haven. Thought you’ll want your books back, plus a few more. Varric’s happy to autograph a copy of _Tale of the Champion_ for you, just so you know.”

“He told me. Should I expect your thoughts on the Champion’s life in the margins?” Maxwell asks, earning a nervous chuckle from the mage. “You’re giving me a library but you won’t talk to me. Why? What did I do?”

“It’s not about - you didn’t do anything.” Dorian shakes his head with a bitter huff. “You don’t see it, do you? We can be allies. Friends, even. But anything more… you’re the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste. I’m Tevinter and a mage. That’s all anyone will care about. I’ve survived my fair share of chatter, gossip, scandalous rumors, but you? They’ll eat you alive. I can’t… ask that of you.”

Maxwell suddenly, painfully, remembers why he left home in the first place. The reason he always gives is that the Ostwick Circle fell and he needed to find his sister; it’s enough to keep others from prying, from discovering the anger and humiliation that roiled inside him for days and days while his father tried to arrange for the Starkhaven chantry to take him in. They couldn’t afford another spate of rumors, his father said. They couldn’t afford tarnishing the house with another wayward child. What are the Trevelyans if they can't manage to pledge one of their own to the Chantry?

But the world saw him close the Breach. They saw him give up his life so that they’d have a chance to defeat a powerful and terrible enemy. They proclaimed him Andraste’s Herald and then the next Inquisitor. Why should they dictate his every step, his every decision, his every interaction with others? Why should he be at their mercy even in his private life?

The thoughts coalesce into a hot sharp indignant thing in his chest and he has to breathe slowly, unclench his hands, find better words to clear the murky waters.

“That night in Haven,” he says haltingly, “when I was trying to outrun an avalanche that should’ve killed me? I thought about a lot of things. Evie. My family. The life I wanted to live. What might’ve been if Corypheus never showed himself. But mostly, I… I wanted a chance. I wanted to know where we’d go after I closed the Breach. But I wasn’t getting that chance because I was going to die.”

“Maxwell-”

“You should see the letters Josephine tries to hide from me. People are angry with me. They’re angry I’m Ostwickian and a Marcher. They’re angry I didn’t show any deference to the Chantry. They’re angry Fiona is now advising the Inquisition. But they’re writing to Josephine every day asking for an audience with me. They want my favor because I’m the Inquisitor and I’m going to save the world. They can live with whatever decisions I make for myself.”

“Such as?” Dorian asks softly and his heart breaks at the look in Dorian’s eyes, at the wonder and bewilderment and hope behind them.

Maxwell lifts his hand, curls his fingers, and then reaches over to cup the side of Dorian’s face. “What we have,” he says, words hoarse and hushed. “I missed this, you know. I missed you. I-”

The kiss isn’t graceful. Maxwell scrambles to not fall into the well but Dorian’s hands are steady and secure, fingers curling around the back of his neck and around his hip. There’s a huff of laughter against his mouth and Dorian kisses him again; his lips are warm and soft, details Maxwell missed the first time, and he smells faintly of northern spices and smoke. 

Dorian’s eyes are bright when they finally part, gleaming like the stars overhead. _You’re beautiful_ , Maxwell thinks while sliding his hand through dark damp hair and something raw and hot coils tightly in his chest. He pulls Dorian back in for another kiss and thinks his heart might burst when he feels the mage smile.

They walk back to the keep at a leisurely pace, shoulders bumping, one of Dorian’s wisps lighting the way ahead. At the foot of the stairs leading up to the main hall, Dorian says, “One thing.”

“What is it?”

“I know you’re not the sort but… try not to mention this to anybody else. You’ve only been the Inquisitor for two months. Consider waiting until you’ve made yourself utterly indispensable to these people before giving them something truly scandalous to titter over.”

Maxwell has no plans to shout about anything from the balcony anytime soon but he doesn’t say that. “You’re looking forward to that day, aren’t you?”

Dorian laughs. “Am I that predictable? But all the same….”

“I know. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Dorian looks at him fondly and Maxwell can’t help stepping into his space and leaning in until their noses brush. Dorian closes the distance and kisses him softly, lightly, and then steps back with a wide smile. He drags a hand through his mussed damp hair and says, “Sleep well.”

He walks away, the wisp trailing him reluctantly, until they both disappear into Skyhold’s shadows. Maxwell remains standing at the bottom of the stairs, fingers touching his swollen lip, and then climbs them up to the keep. All but one of the soldiers walking the hall pay him no mind and the one who does raises an eyebrow upon seeing him.

“Is there a problem?” Maxwell asks, keeping his voice as evenly as possible.

Captain Katarin considers her answer. “No, Inquisitor. Good night, ser.” And then, quietly but not quietly enough, “Maker, they took long enough.”

He quickly walks away before she sees his reddening face but can’t stop grinning while climbing the stairs to his quarters.

* * *

The loud cawing on the balcony wakes him from his blissfully dreamless sleep. He buries his head under the pillows, trying to dive back in, but the raven won’t stop screeching. Finally, he untangles himself from twisted sheets and lurches to his feet to wave the bird off his tower. That’s when he hears frantic knocking on the door down below.

“So that’s why,” Maxwell sighs when he realizes the sun hasn’t crested the Frostbacks yet. He winces when he pulls a sore muscle while raking his fingers through disheveled hair.

He opens the door to a nervous agent who salutes and then gapes at him. Maxwell blinks and glances down to realize he’d forgotten about his shirt, giving the agent an eyeful of bruises from every lucky hit the Iron Bull and Dorian got in this past week. He crosses his arms tightly over his chest, wishing he can retreat back up the stairs to find another tunic.

“What is it?” Maxwell finally asks.

“Uh. Your Worship. Sister Nightingale told me you’re to come to Montilyet’s office immediately. From Crestwood, she said. It’s Scout Harding.”


	6. andraste 14: making monsters of men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: claustrophobia, drowning
> 
> This is the first new chapter to be uploaded since I started posting this fic years ago. If you've been here before, enjoy the brand new words! If not... enjoy anyways!

A small company of soldiers follow the Inquisitor’s party to Crestwood. Speed is of the essence and who would try to waylay a group of well-armed travelers? 

An unfortunate band of brigands still try, at the foot of the Frostbacks and just out of sight of Cullen’s half-built watchtowers. They demand a toll to use the Imperial Highway and end up pincered between the Inquisitor and Sutherland’s patrol. The party leaves the bandits in Sutherland’s capable hands and continue to Crestwood.

On the fifth day, the rains begin, muddying the roads and slowing their pace. They reach camp by evening on the sixth day, soaked to the bone, caked in mud, and utterly exhausted. Leliana’s lead scout, Lace Harding, is waiting for them. She greets them with surprising cheer and awkwardly helps Maxwell dismount, holding the Bog Unicorn’s reins and keeping its bony head well away from hers. She hands the reins to a waiting soldier who gingerly leads it away with the other horses and then salutes him and Cassandra, her freckled face sunny despite the general gloom of the place.

“Your Worship, Seeker,” she says and points to the tents sheltered under the trees. She doesn’t see him grimace at the title. “Everything is ready for you. You’ll have the full report first thing in the morning.”

“Uh, what’s that?” Sera demands, pointing at something beyond camp.

Harding chose an elevated hill just off the North Road as the base camp and for good reason; it overlooks a large murky lake where the scouts can observe an eerie green glow far across the waters. Maxwell’s stomach sinks at the sight. There’s a rift in the middle of the lake? How is he supposed to close it? Row out in a boat and pray no demons come out to play?

“That’s not the only problem,” Harding says. “Do you want to hear it all now? I know you’ve had a long ride and it’s too dark to venture out anyway.”

Cassandra looks ready to argue but reconsiders when half the party immediately disappears into the tents without another word or even food. She sighs and says, “You can at least inform me and the Inquisitor of the situation. Your messages to Leliana were… brief.”

“Yes, of course. Right this way.” She takes them to a tent where a table had been set up with candles, a pitcher of water, and a wrinkled map marked up in charcoal and ink. She gestures to it. “My scouts tracked the Warden Stroud to this area south of us but lost him.”

“Why?”

“Crestwood is… having an undead problem. The old Crestwood is actually below us but it’s underwater. It flooded when the dam broke during the Blight and drowned both darkspawn and villagers. Don’t know about the darkspawn but the things walking out of the lake at night to attack the new Crestwood were… human, once. Villagers told me it started happening after the rift appeared. If you close it, the attacks should stop.”

“How am I even supposed to reach it?” Maxwell wonders. “Do we even have boats?”

“I think the dam is the key but you’ll have to talk to the mayor, Gregory Dedrick. He was mayor of old Crestwood, too; he might know what happened to the dam ten years ago and how to fix it. But that’s not all.”

“Don’t tell me,” Cassandra says. “Is it the Red Templars? The Venatori?”

“Wardens, actually, though you’re not wrong,” Harding says to the Seeker’s exasperated groan. “Past several days, my people kept running into them. They’re spread out all over this part of the area, helping villagers and fighting off the undead, but that’s not why they’re here.”

“I thought they were all in Montsimmard,” Maxwell says. 

“You did say Stroud was being followed. Between the undead, the Wardens, a group of Red Templars, and local bandits, we’ve had our hands full. Doing the best we can but there’s only so much a few scouts can do.”

“You should ask Leliana for a raise,” Maxwell suggests and Cassandra quirks a smile.

“The rift is the first priority,” she decides while leaning over Harding’s map. “Talk to Mayor Dedrick about old Crestwood and the dam. Draining the lake should make it easier for you to reach the rift. Once that is dealt with, we’ll search for Stroud.”

Maxwell nods and then squints at a hastily made charcoal marking south of the dam. “What’s this supposed to be?”

“Oh, that?” Harding says. “The Black Fens. A high dragon’s been preying on the livestock here. One of my people thinks she’s a Northern Hunter. Did I mention a dragon lives here?”

Ten minutes later, Maxwell and Cassandra step back out into the rain. He shivers in the gray damp and looks around at the gloomy soldiers walking the camp perimeter and the people sitting around low stubborn campfires. Varric is one of them and he gestures to Maxwell.

“She say anything about Hawke?” the dwarf asks.

“No. She would’ve if she saw him,” Maxwell replies. “Has to be nearby, though. He’s had weeks on us.”

“Fantastic. Now I got even more shit to worry about,” Varric grumbles. “And Stroud?”

“Holed up somewhere south of Crestwood but Wardens are out looking for him. Among other things.”

“What other things?” Blackwall asks while trying to whittle a slick branch with his knife.

“Undead, Red Templars, a dragon. And Harding didn’t deny there’s Venatori out here.”

“Maker’s breath. What, did Stroud manage to piss them all off too?” Varric kneads his temple with a gloved hand. “Guess I’ll turn in and get as good a sleep as I can get. Long days ahead of us.”

The tent Maxwell was pointed to is empty, which surprises and disappoints him. He supposes the isolation comes with the rank but that grates on his nerves. He doesn’t want the privacy but rather the company, to remember that he isn’t so different from the others. 

Sighing, he tosses his belongings to the side and yanks off his muddied clothes. This means pulling off his wet gloves and exposing the anchor, and a sudden hush falls on the other side of the canvas as soldiers notice the eerie green light. He clenches his cold hand and tendrils of rift magic pulse in protest. Once the soldiers move away, footsteps squelching in mud, he changes into dry clothing and looks for a strip of cloth to wrap around his palm.

He grabs his dagger from his discarded belt and twists around when someone enters the tent. He relaxes when he realizes it’s Dorian, clutching his staff and pack and dripping water everywhere. And then it dawns on him that it’s _Dorian_ and he tenses again.

“Um….”

Dorian, for his part, looks apologetic. “Normally I wouldn’t, but if I have to share a tent with that - with _the_ Iron Bull for one more night, I can’t promise I won’t set fire to everything he holds dear, including his hands. And you’re the only person not sharing a tent with someone tonight so I thought I’d… that is, if you’re fine with the arrangement. I understand if you don’t want to-”

“No, no, I’m fine. Really.” He offers a smile, ignoring the sudden constriction around his heart. A voice in his head warns against risking ruining more family names but then he remembers that he’s the Inquisitor, they’re the Inquisition, and a local village is being attacked by possessed corpses. This is hardly the time and place for social mores. “I promise not to be handsy in my sleep.”

“If I had any virtue that needed protecting, I’ll let you know,” Dorian replies. “Though I’m not adverse to _your_ wandering hands.” He smirks when Maxwell flushes and ducks his head. “But right now all I want is out of these wet things and to be fast asleep. If you only knew how much I didn’t get on the way here.”

“Should I order soldiers to carry a feather mattress around for your delicate body?”

Dorian pretends to seriously consider it. “A tempting use of your powers, Inquisitor, but if Madame de Fer can sleep on sharp rocks and wake up looking ready to conquer Seheron, then so can I.”

Maxwell huffs a laugh at the image and turns away to crawl into his slightly damp bedroll. He goes still when Dorian murmurs his name and turns back around to see the mage crouch before him, a hand reaching out to brush against his face. Maxwell shivers at the light press of Dorian’s thumb on his bottom lip and swears the mage’s eyes darken but all he does is lean in for a kiss. He returns to his side of the tent with a pleased grin and Maxwell wonders - _hopes_ that this is how things will be between them from now on.

Harding’s description of the situation in Crestwood informs his dreams and _Maxwell finds himself wading through water while clammy grey hands claw at the Breach in the middle of the lake. He swears the Breach is within range of the anchor but no matter how many sluggish steps he takes, the massive Veil tear manages to stay just out of reach. The arms of the undead swirl around him, grappling at his armor, his arms and legs, his face, trying to drag him under._

_Something cracks thunderously behind him and he turns to see the mountains collapse one by one, raising clouds of snow, shattered stone, red lyrium dust. The avalanche sweeps away the silhouettes stumbling along the distant shore and plows into the water. Waves crest his head and he sputters and chokes, fighting the clammy hands, the weight of his armor, the violent waters. He tries to swim to the Breach, knowing it’s the only thing that can stop this, but it remains out of reach._

_Something grabs his ankle and pulls him under, out of the way of the oncoming landslide. He tries to reach the surface but the water seems to wrap around him and carry him away from the turbulent waves and the bodies of the dead, the aftermath of the avalanche. It whispers in his ear, a slow soothing sound that’s nothing like the discordant chime of red lyrium, and he drifts below the surface of the lake, lulled by the waters that sound like_ rain.

He blinks awake at the steady thudding of heavy droplets on oiled canvas. Soldiers and scouts talk in a muted murmur while moving through camp - “Crestwood” and “Wardens” and “undead” and “Champion” and “Inquisitor” - and then he hears Solas’s voice pleasantly greets a grouchy Sera while Cassandra asks Blackwall for his whetstone. It’s morning.

Maxwell reluctantly disentangles himself from his bedroll and the arms wrapped around him from behind, wondering when in the night Dorian migrated to his side of the tent. Dorian doesn’t stir while he searches through his belongings for dry clothes. After looping a belt over his sash and leather coat, Maxwell crawls back to Dorian’s side and wonders whether to wake the mage. Instead, he brushes a hand over Dorian’s scarred left shoulder before slipping out. His skin prickles as he steps into the cold rain and he squints up at the gloomy sky.

Solas has moved from provoking Sera to conversing with Cole while looking out at the flooded lake. Sera sits in a miserable tangle of limbs in front of the fire, glowering into her bowl of porridge like it personally offended her; across from the elf, Cassandra finishes inspecting her longsword and dagger, Blackwall’s whetstone in hand. Vivienne appears next to Maxwell, looking pristine and utterly unperturbed by the weather, and bids him a good morning before seeking food. A faint sheen on her face and shoulders suggests she’s using a barrier to repel the rain.

“We need to move out soon,” Cassandra says when he sits down next to her with a bowl and two apples in a small satchel on his belt. “Three of Harding’s agents stayed in the village to help and reported two more losses. We must deal with the rift quickly.”

“Has Crestwood always been this miserable and damp?” Blackwall grumbles while walking past, fumbling with his vambraces. “Thought the Mire was bad enough.”

“The rift may be affecting the weather here like it is with the dead,” Solas offers, not that it placates anyone.

“Fuck the Mire,” Sera says with feeling and others chime in with varying degrees of agreement except for Solas, who was near Orzammar assisting with the lyrium shipments, and Cole, who was helping Barris flee Therinfal Redoubt. “Everything stinks of too much damp, too damp, why can’t we go somewhere with _sun_?”

* * *

The Inquisition finds trouble quickly.

They’ve been on the road past muddy gray hills for close to an hour when they hear the telltale sounds of battle. No one needs to be told twice; they run up the road to find two Grey Wardens battling possessed corpses to defend a terrified elven woman. With a furious cry, Blackwall launches himself at the fray and smashes a corpse aside with his shield. Varric’s bolts finish the job and it falls to the ground. Solas torches two of the undead while Maxwell and Cassandra trap the others between them and the two Wardens.

“Wasn’t expecting the Inquisition here but thank you,” a Warden says while wiping his blade clean with a handful of soggy grass. “If you keep along this road, you’ll find the village. These people are in sore need of help. Maker knows no one else is offering it.”

“You could stay and help us, at least until the undead are dealt with,” Maxwell says, knowing what their answer will be.

“We’re here on Warden business, ser. We cannot delay.”

Maxwell glances at Blackwall, hoping the man will step in and delay them until Harding’s people find Stroud, but the other Warden speaks up first.

“Are you sure about this? I don’t like leaving these people-”

“We have our orders. The Inquisition is here. They know what to do with that magical… thing out on the lake. They can take it from here.” The first Warden salutes him and ushers his companion away.

Someone clears her throat and Maxwell turns around to the elven woman.

“Thank you, ser,” she says timidly. She watches the Wardens vanish into the gloom. “Until you came, the Wardens were the only ones who bothered to help us. You don’t see that anymore.”

“No, you don’t,” Blackwall says.

“Wish I could help. Maybe if they took me in, showed me how to be just like them so that I could do some good for once instead of-”

“You want to join the Wardens?” Maxwell asks.

“They saved my life and Crestwood and didn’t ask for anything in return. I owe my life to them.”

She looks meaningfully at an uneasy Blackwall and Maxwell awkwardly says, “You… could join the Inquisition instead. We’re here now and could use people like you.”

“The Inquisition? I… I never thought… I suppose.” She wrings her hands. “I’ll think about it.”

“If you decide to join us, there’s a camp up this road near the lake. Tell them the - the Inquisitor sent you.”

Once she’s out of earshot, dazed that she was personally recruited by the Inquisitor and Herald himself, Blackwall scowls at him. “Was that necessary? ‘Join the Inquisition instead’? You know how hard it is to find Warden recruits in between Blights?”

“Your order’s disappearance may be linked to the enemy’s activities,” Solas replies. “If you send her to them, you may be sending her to her death or worse. Would you want that?

They find abandoned houses and moldy gardens as they near the village. Hacked waterlogged corpses litter the ground and so do the rotting bodies of unlucky villagers. The constant rain drowns out the smell of decay, a small blessing, but Maxwell still holds his breath and keeps his eyes fixed firmly ahead of him. Up ahead, he sees grey shapes stumbling through the downpour in the direction of the wooden walls of a village.

The beleaguered villagers of new Crestwood don’t notice help arriving until Solas immolates the corpses battering at the gates and Maxwell’s greatsword flashes in the damp, breaking bony limbs with such force as to sever them from their slimy bodies. Blackwall shouts instructions to the villagers while positioning himself in front of the gates and smashes the corpses aside with his shield. Varric picks off the undead trying to scale the wall while Cassandra storms at the silhouettes crawling up the road towards them.

“Demons!” she shouts and slams a shade with her shield.

Maxwell pivots and slams his sword into the nearest one, stunning it before cutting it down. Blackwall steadies the panicked villagers and soon their arrows find homes in the demons, slowing them to a puzzled stop and opening up opportunities for Maxwell and Cassandra. Varric keeps up a steady volley of bolts from atop a pile of rubbish and lobs a grenade at the demons that got past them, keeping them off of Blackwall. Solas sets off a firestorm on what’s left of the assailants, brightening Crestwood for a brief brilliant moment, and burning corpses fall in the mud.

Thanks to their arrival, Crestwood loses no one in the latest assault and the grateful villagers quickly open the gates. Maxwell wipes mud and ichor off his face while striding through them with Cassandra. Behind him, Varric yanks bolts out of the gray corpses and Solas casts protective glyphs on the roads. Blackwall is already overseeing the village’s shabby defenses. Cassandra asks someone about the mayor and she points up a muddy road slowly winding between houses, sodden vegetable plots, empty market stalls, and up a hill to what might’ve been the local chantry.

Maxwell turns to the nearest villager. “How are things here?”

“Your Worship,” the man says with a quick jerky bow. He’s still wide-eyed by what just happened. “Not a lot of us left to hold the village. Thank Andraste you and those Wardens came when you did. We might not have lasted another night.”

“It’s that bad here?” The man nods. “Was there no one you could call for aid?”

“We can’t. Bandits calling themselves the Highwaymen took over Caer Bronach beyond that hill and control the roads. Wouldn’t let us get word out and now they’re locked up in the keep, waiting out all these - these things. Are you here about that magic out on the lake?” He glances around and adds, “Just that - the stories we heard, Your Worship. The things you can do. Are you here to save us?”

Other villagers slowly congregate around him, curious and hopeful. This is the first test, Maxwell realizes. The Inquisition will start defining itself here, in a small Fereldan village off the old Imperial Highway. He clenches his left hand reflexively and the anchor pulses through every tendril of magic woven around his fingers and sunken deep under his skin.

“Yes. I’ll do whatever I can.” He points to Blackwall. “Warden Blackwall will help you rebuild your wall and defend it. Does anyone know about the dam? I can’t reach that… magic without draining the lake first.”

“Mayor Dedrick does,” someone pipes up. 

“Then I’ll talk to him about it and those bandits. They’ll be dealt with, I promise.”

“Thank you, Your Worship,” the man says. Others echo his sentiments and many smile gratefully while dispersing to patch up their village.

Maxwell lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding and scrubs at the back of his neck like it’ll dispel the knot in his chest.

“You’re getting… gunk all over your head,” Varric remarks.

Solas looks around the village uneasily before leaning in. “While I commend your desire to help, I would not have gone so far as to promise it. There are places the Inquisition should not tread.”

“Oh come on,” Varric says. “It’s just one small village. You heard him - they couldn’t get word out about the dead men attacking their village because of those bandits. Who wouldn’t stop to help?”

“He is the new Inquisitor and no one knows what to expect. Temper expectations when possible. Show restraint in what promises he can and can’t make,” Solas replies. “You are not here to solve every single problem presented to you.”

Maxwell knows Solas means well. Still. “I’m not saying no if they ask for help,” he says and ends the conversation.

Gregory Dedrick, mayor of the old and new Crestwood, looks just as haggard as the others who outlived many nights here but there’s something about the way his eyes constantly flick here and there, the way he rocks on his feet and his lips thin while answering questions about old Crestwood. The dam’s controls are at Caer Bronach, he says, but the Highwaymen had killed the groundskeeper and taken over. Even if they didn’t, the dam had been broken by the darkspawn during the Blight which had led to the old village’s flooding. Maxwell will have to fight his way inside to flush out the Highwaymen and repair the damage.

“Anyone get the feeling he’s hiding something?” Varric asks outside the mayor’s house. “Or is it just me?”

“Not just you,” Maxwell says. His skin crawls at the thought. “He doesn’t seem as worried about the Highwaymen.”

“It’s almost like he wants to let them continue controlling Caer Bronach,” Cassandra says. “We should investigate.”

The road south takes them past abandoned market stalls and wandering demons. Caer Bronach looms in the distance, a towering ominous silhouette. If Maxwell squints, he can just make out the lit torches within. They slow to a cautious crawl the closer they get but they don’t see a single occupant. They skirt around the thick stone walls and find a locked grate at the base of the keep on the lakefront. Varric studies it and shakes his head.

“No can do. It’s locked on the inside. Anyone got explosives?”

“Absolutely not,” Cassandra replies flatly. “We are not alerting them to our presence with only five of us present.”

“Frontal assault, then,” Blackwall says. “You see the front gate? Going to need a battering ram.”

“Let’s keep looking,” Maxwell suggests. “There has to be another way in.”

There isn’t.

They run into several Highwaymen walking the road for unsuspecting travelers. The bandits can easily rebuff the villagers’ attempts to run them out but they’re no match for the seemingly disparate group of armed people and flee into the rain. There are far fewer undead walking around the rocky hills but the farmhouses are all abandoned, left to the bandits, rain, and weeds. A pack of scrawny black wolves crest a distant slope and Maxwell suddenly remembers the howling in the Frostbacks that led him to safety.

“Hawke should be here by now,” Varric grumbles while tugging on his hood. 

“You think he’s in trouble?” Harding is still finding their trail, which he assumed vanished because they don’t want to draw attention to themselves. But if Varric’s worried, so should he.

“He’s Hawke. He can handle anything.” Varric’s frown deepens. “If it’s Sunshine or Broody, though….”

Something prickles. An eerie chime weaves through the downpour and the mournful howling of the black wolves, and Maxwell shudders. The others look around uneasily and a visibly troubled Solas points at the slope on their left.

“Red lyrium,” Cassandra mutters at the sight of massive glowing lyrium spires sprouting out of the earth. “Harding warned me about Corypheus’s templars. This must be why they’re here.”

“Then let’s go take those bastards out,” Blackwall says.

The Red Templars are guarding an unremarkable cave and yet they fight like bears to defend it. They’re formidable and relentless, fueled by the red lyrium they consume. Maxwell struggles to hold his ground on slippery sloping turf against these glowing red knights and lyrium horrors. None of his drills with the Iron Bull compares with what the templars throw at him.

The templars drive a wedge into the group, separating Maxwell from the others. A lyrium-encrusted horror lunges at him, crystallized arm drawn back. Solas immolates the templar but it still manages to scrape his face before going up in flames. He lashes out wildly, shattering red and armor, and shoves at another templar to keep it away. He wipes his face, trying to rid himself of its searing touch, and then ducks away from the templar when they come at him again. He swings at their side, breaking off lyrium spikes, and brings his sword down on their helm.

_Stay away. Stay away. You can’t touch me. You can’t. Never again. You can’t-_

He attacks the corrupted knights with increasingly wild and heavy blows, trying to overwhelm them before they can gouge him with lyrium. He doesn’t see the shadowy lyrium-infected templar circling him until it leaps at his exposed back; it easily blocks his counter and disarms him before flinging him into the side of a lyrium spire. He collapses in a heap, winded and dazed while the prickling chime grows louder in his head. He reaches for his dagger with shaking fingers while the templar approaches.

Cassandra swings her shield at the templar and stabs it as it staggers back, splintering red lyrium. The templar shrieks and she twists the hilt until it stops and falls over. She kicks Maxwell’s sword to him and then turns to block a blow from the last templar. She holds the knight at bay until Maxwell comes in and beheads it.

“That was reckless,” she snaps once she’s sure the templar is dead. “What were you thinking exposing yourself like that?”

“I wasn’t,” he admits and limps to the templar outpost, ignoring her glare.

He knows better, can already imagine Carrine yelling at him up and down the training yard for losing his composure but he can’t hold onto his thoughts around theses red spires. He shudders while walking by the mutilated bodies and avoids the humming red crystals bursting out of wooden chests.

“Are you injured?” Cassandra asks after a minute.

Is he? He glances down at himself but only sees dented armor and flecks of red lyrium caught in the mail and folds; he quickly brushes them off. He touches his right cheek, searching for the scrape, and winces when his face stings. It doesn’t seem like any red lyrium was left behind, though. “I’m fine. Haven’t had a fight like that in a while.”

She looks unconvinced but only says, “I can tell.”

Varric roots through the camp, unlocking untainted chests and rifling through their contents. Blackwall and Solas methodically destroy the lyrium spires, lessening their eerie influence on the hills. Solas sets fire to the spires’ shattered roots for good measure.

“Found something,” Varric calls out. He’s skimming damp papers filched from a small locked chest with a confused frown. “Looks like our dead friends were searching for elven ruins. And look at this. Orders from up high for the Venatori.”

“Harding didn’t say they were here,” Maxwell says worriedly.

“Let me see those.” Cassandra takes them out of Varric’s hands before he can protest. “This one was from a month ago and this one was sent just last week. The Venatori _were_ here but they left to make way for the templars.”

“Reads like there’s some bad blood between them,” Varric muses. “Maybe it isn’t all sunshine and roses in Corypheus’s camp.”

“Or the Venatori are going west to interfere with the ceasefire,” Cassandra says and folds up the letters. She tucks them under her breastplate and points to the cave. “We should see what the templars were protecting from us.”

“More lyrium, I bet,” Blackwall mutters. “Bad news for the villagers. Solas thinks there’s a chance it might all grow back.”

“You’ll have to warn them to stay away from these hills for their own safety,” the apostate says. “I’ve done my best to destroy these roots but even a sliver of red lyrium can take root and spread.”

“Wonderful,” Varric says.

The cave has crates of supplies but no red lyrium, a relief for all present. Blackwall suggests sending them to the villagers rather than sit in the cave gathering dust, and Maxwell agrees. Outside the cave, Maxwell can barely hear the eerie red song but he doesn’t relax until they’re back on the road to Crestwood. 

“Solas,” he asks, “do you know anything about these elven ruins the templars were looking for?”

Solas looks at him flatly. “Just because I visit them in order to dream doesn’t mean I have a map of their locations. But no, I am unaware of the ones the templars were searching for. Tonight, I will consult my friends.”

Night has set in when they reach Crestwood. The thick clouds prevent the moons from shining through and Solas summons veilfire to light their way back. They arrive to corpses attacking the gates again but thanks to Blackwall, the wall holds. Someone shouts a warning and Maxwell turns to see demons slithering up the road.

Afterwards, they stagger through the gates in such a sorry state that the villagers immediately offer up their homes and meager stores of food and drink.

“That’s - that’s not necessary,” Maxwell says, tempted as he is. He doesn’t want to walk back to camp in the dark while the undead and demons wander but he can’t burden these villagers with his presence.

“Can’t leave, though,” Blackwall says tiredly while squeezing the contents of his waterskin into his bloodied mouth. “Too dark to make it back in one piece and who knows when those corpses will attack again.”

“Yeah, I’m not doing too good,” Varric sighs.

Once Cassandra admits that she’s also in no shape to continue back to camp, Maxwell caves in and allows the villagers to put them in an emptied house. Blackwall and Solas leave as soon as they’ve eaten, electing to take the first watch at the wall to help fend off the next wave of corpses and demons.

“Tomorrow, we’ll move camp here,” Cassandra says while unbuckling her vambraces. “Our soldiers can protect the village and lend support when we take Caer Bronach. Once that’s done, we’ll repair the dam, drain the lake, close the rift, and resume our search for Stroud.” She then swears while undoing the straps holding her chestpiece and backplate together.

“Cassandra? Are you all right?” Maxwell asks, alarmed.

She gestures for him to stay put when he rises to his feet. “I’m fine.” She probes her side carefully. “Just some bruising. It’s nothing serious.”

He settles back on the floor and stares at the pitiful flames in the fireplace, starts pulling at the straps and buckles holding his dented armor together. He wonders what Dorian and the others were doing back up north. Did they meet the traveling Wardens? Did Hawke find them?

“Get some sleep, Trevelyan,” Cassandra says. “It’ll be a long night.”

* * *

Three Inquisition soldiers appear at the gates early in the morning, gripping ichor-coated swords and asking the villagers if they have seen the Inquisitor. Varric happens to be sitting under the smithy’s awning at that hour and hails them. He points them to the borrowed house.

“Your Worship,” they say when Maxwell comes limping to the door, bleary-eyed and stifling a yawn.

“What is it? Is everything all right?”

“Yes, Your Worship. Not many demons and undead on the road right now. Wardens came by the camp, said they saw you going to Crestwood. But you didn’t send word back or return….”

His stomach drops. They couldn’t send anyone back out into the night. Of course the others would be worried. “I didn’t realize - I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened.”

The soldiers balk and one blurts out, “You don’t have to apologize! …Your Worship. That is, do you have orders?”

He looks over his shoulder at Cassandra, who’s sitting at an uneven table with the wrinkled missives laid out in front of her, and then at Blackwall curled up on one of the beds, fast asleep in his dented armor. 

Someone politely clears their throat.

“Cassandra?” Maxwell says. “If you see Solas on the way-”

“Where did he say he was going?”

“North of here. The hills, I think. He said he was resetting wards.”

She nods and rises to her feet, straps on her belt and scabbard, and picks up her shield. “One of you stay at the wall with Varric. You two, come with me.”

Two hours later, villagers watch, wide-eyed, as Inquisition soldiers stream into the village. Jana, the elf Maxwell convinced to help the Inquisition, is with them and she smiles at Maxwell while showing soldiers where to set up camp. Mayor Dedrick ventures out into the rain to watch, his face turning increasingly sour as his village transforms into an Inquisition base.

“This will not be a permanent arrangement, Mayor,” Cassandra says. “We’ll leave once the Highwaymen are dealt with.”

“If you take Caer Bronach, you can have it!” the man snaps and returns to his house.

A wave of undead and demons approach Crestwood minutes later but they never reach the gates. Solas’s wards go off in a spectacular explosion of ice and fire, and by the time the soldiers burst through the gates to attack, Varric had already picked off the rest. Sera sticks her tongue out at him while putting her arrows back in her quiver and a few soldiers grumble while gathering the bodies for the village’s resident sister to cremate.

Varric wades through camp to Harding, who’s discussing reinforcing Crestwood’s wooden defenses with the villagers. “No word on Hawke?” 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “All we have is their trail coming up from the south. I don’t know why they took that route but they should be here soon.”

“Right,” he sighs. “At least they’re alive. I’m going to kick his ass….”

One by one, the others turn up at the borrowed house, splattered in mud and dripping everywhere. Cole, seemingly impervious to the gloomy weather, wanders around the partitioned spaces, picking things up to examine and occasionally talk to. Varric watches while taking a seat by the fireplace in a vain attempt to dry out. Vivienne enters the house, boots slathered with dark mud; she dismisses her barrier with a quick flick of her wrist and it sheds away with the water.

“Wish I knew that trick,” Varric grumbles while shaking drying clumps of dirt from his boots. “Kid, let’s not go through those.”

Maxwell watches from a corner of the room, trying to hide his yawns and not keel over. The others, thankfully, don’t look too closely at him. He watches the Iron Bull carefully shimmy through the narrow door and scrape the bottoms of his boots on a stool.

“Bull, dear,” Vivienne says sharply.

“What - oops.” He wipes the mud off and sticks his hand outside to let the rain wash it away. “Hey, Boss! Heard the mayor offered you a fort.”

“Infested with bandits,” Vivienne says. “No wonder he was so quick to give it away.”

“What’s a little house cleaning?” the Qunari asks. He wipes his hands and kicks the stool over to the table Vivienne is sitting at. “Grab a broom and sweep those people out, no problem.”

“It’ll be a problem when the local bann hears he gave part of the land to the Inquisition.”

“If the bann has a problem with it-” Maxwell starts.

“Ruffles will take care of it,” Varric says. “Might even sweet talk the bann into giving it to you as thanks for taking care of that rift.”

Dorian follows Sera and Blackwall into the house, tracking mud and looking miserable. Sera claims a bed to herself and scrubs her wet hair into a bird’s nest while Blackwall takes a seat by the fireplace. Dorian pulls back his soaked cowl, looks around, and sidesteps the others to sidle over to Maxwell. The mage rakes wet hair out of his eyes and then looks at him critically.

Maxwell wonders why he doesn’t use a barrier like Vivienne does.

“You look terrible,” Dorian decides. 

“Ran into templars yesterday,” Maxwell says. He stifles another yawn and slumps against the wall. “Spent the night here helping the villagers with their undead problem. It’s just like the Mire.”

“Including the rain and a castle full of brigands. Never a dull moment around you.”

Maxwell laughs and rubs the back of his neck. He nods to the wrinkled missives on a crate serving as a bedside table. “Found those at the templar camp. The Venatori were here earlier.”

“Of course they were.”

“They’re looking for elven ruins of some kind. Then someone named Calpernia ordered them to go west to Orlais.”

“Calpernia?” Dorian muses. “Interesting name.”

“How so?”

“Calpernia is the adoptive mother of Darinius, the first archon and Tevinter’s founder. She was a priestess of the Old God Dumat who discovered the infant Darinius and raised him as her own.” Dorian taps on his chin thoughtfully. “You don’t name just anyone Calpernia. Once we return to Skyhold, I’ll ask Felix to put out feelers for anyone going by that name.”

“Is he well?” Maxwell asks.

“Well enough.” Dorian watches him stifle another yawn and leans in to quietly ask, “Are you?”

He smiles tightly. The fight in the hills outside the village left scars in his dreams, forcing him awake again and again even though he desperately needed the sleep. His only respite was sitting at the wall with Cassandra, keeping an eye out for more wandering undead and demons. He didn’t want to look too closely at what that said about him.

“You need rest,” Dorian says, “not to lead an assault on a castle.”

“Crestwood needs my help. You know who the undead are? The people of old Crestwood. They drowned with the darkspawn when the dam broke during the Blight. If I close the rift, these people won’t have to… remember.”

Dorian grimaces. “Fair enough. Suppose we should be thankful the darkspawn stayed dead. Makes you wonder why demons didn’t possess their bodies.”

“I’d rather not fight darkspawn, alive or dead, while the Wardens aren’t here.”

With the others deep in conversation with each other or lost in their own worlds, he wants to lean on Dorian’s shoulder, soak in the warmth radiating from the mage and breathe in the faint scent of warm spices under the earthy damp that clings to everything in Crestwood. They’re in the open, though, and he thinks Varric is watching; when he looks again, the dwarf is talking with Cole.

Cassandra, Solas, and Harding enter the house and all conversations grind to a halt. Cole watches from his perch on a dusty shelf and the Iron Bull slowly drops his feet from another stool he had propped them on. Maxwell stands up straight when the lead scout looks at him.

“Inquisitor,” Harding says. “Still no signs of Stroud but we found Hawke. Do you want to wait until he gets here?”

Varric is vigorously shaking his head so Maxwell asks, “Are we ready?”

“We apprehended the Highwaymen on the roads around here. They won’t be a problem when we take Caer Bronach.”

“Then let’s go.”

Taking Caer Bronach is much more feasible when everyone’s here to lend a hand. The Iron Bull smashes in the keep’s thick wooden doors, which had been weakened by the incessant rain, with a triumphant shout and then swings his greataxe at a pair of charging marbari hounds. Startled Highwaymen scramble for their bows, daggers, swords, and axes; one unfortunate bandit drops his quiver in panic and then is dropped when Cole appears behind him and lashes out in a flurry of daggers.

“War hounds. What was I expecting,” Dorian sighs while hexing two bandits, causing them to drop their weapons and swipe at the air wildly. He steps out of the way of Sera’s arrows and sends a sizzling bright bolt at a marbari snapping at Vivienne’s staff blade. It yelps and turns on him only to fall over, an arrow sticking out of its throat.

“We’re in Ferelden. The Theirin crest has marbari hounds on it,” Maxwell points out. He breaks a bandit’s face with his pommel and then crushes the man’s ribcage with a heavy swing. “And you always complain about Ferelden smelling like wet dog.”

“Not anymore if I don’t want to start another diplomatic incident. Josephine made that quite clear.”

“Another - _what did you do_?”

Dorian grins cheekily and then blows a trio of Highwaymen off the staircase with a fiery explosion. Once the courtyard is clear, Cassandra signals for soldiers to enter and secure the entrance while the others pursue the rest of the Highwaymen.

The keep fills with the sounds of blowing horns as the bandits retreat up the stairs to the keep. More Highwaymen stream out of the hall, aiming arrows and daggers at the invaders. Dorian casts a wide barrier and Solas scatters half the bowmen with telekinetic force; others either flee in panic or scramble to notch new arrows only to be taken out by Sera and Cole.

Up the slippery steps, the Inquisition collides with the rest of the bandits. Their leader bellows a challenge mangled by chaos, and swings his massive maul at Maxwell. He backpedals before it crushes him and waits until the bandit leader tries to cave in Blackwall’s shield, exposing himself. Maxwell strides in and swings his greatsword; armor dents and cracks on impact and the bandit leader falls to a knee with a pained grunt. He lashes out and the maul connects, sending Blackwall tumbling into a stack of crates. Maxwell throws himself out of the way at the last second and gets up to see the Iron Bull break the man’s chest in with his greataxe.

The surviving Highwaymen flee, leaping over the walls and skidding down the mossy slippery stone surrounding Caer Bronach. Not all of them make it to the bottom of the keep’s hill in one piece.

They sweep the fort, overturning every room and hall to root out anyone hiding from battle. Afterwards, they let the rest of the soldiers in to take advantage of Mayor Dedrick’s offer and raise the Inquisition’s flag on the battlements. While the soldiers start clearing away the bodies and debris, Maxwell goes searching for access to the broken dam. 

“Over there,” Cole says, pointing to a door. “She’s hungry, though.”

“Who?” Maxwell asks.

Cole points down. “They feed her to keep her away. White and hungry and impatient. ‘Snowball’.”

He blinks at the spirit. “I’ll… send some soldiers there to investigate.”

Cassandra and Dorian follow him through the door and down a flight of stairs. They encounter no resistance, no surviving Highwaymen waiting in the shadows, while exiting the keep and crossing the blocked dam to a building proudly calling itself the Rusted Horn.

“A tavern. Here.” Dorian stares at the sign and then at the restive swollen lake on his right. “Of all the places to build one, they chose the top of a dam. I feel seasick.”

The Highwaymen had stocked the tavern with supplies but never wandered beyond the main hall and cellar. The door to the room housing the dam’s controls requires a bit of force and Cassandra shoves it open.

“This… is not what I expected,” she declares.

The room is pristine and the capstan controlling the dam’s floodgates are intact though coated in a thick gray layer. The air is musty and stale as though the door hadn’t been open in years. Maxwell glances at Cassandra; the mayor’s claims about the darkspawn attack aren’t lining up with what they’re seeing. 

“If this is the mayor’s definition of broken, I need to rethink _everything_ ,” Dorian says, eyeing the dust distastefully. “Are you sure he has his story straight?”

“He was here. He would know what happened,” Maxwell replies doubtfully. He walks around the room, searching for clues, but finds none. He brushes dust off one of the capstan handles; it either clumps on his damp gloves or dissipates in the air. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“It does if he was lying,” Cassandra says. Her voice is cold and hard, furious. “Perhaps he claimed the darkspawn were here to keep people from entering the dam and learning the truth of what happened to the old Crestwood.”

The Blight came to Crestwood ten years ago, the mayor said. Darkspawn burst out of the earth to attack the village and surrounding settlements but with Ferelden trapped in a civil war, no bann sent aid to the beleaguered region. The darkspawn broke into Caer Bronach, reached the dam, and disabled it, flooding Crestwood and drowning them and villagers who couldn’t escape in time.

That’s what Mayor Dedrick said. This small room at the back of the tavern says differently. 

“But it was his village,” Maxwell says. “His people. His responsibility. How could he?”

“There are no rules when a Blight comes,” Cassandra says. “It’s why the Wardens have the right of conscription - the Blight must be stopped regardless of the cost. But the mayor is no Warden. He had no right to drown his own people and deceive everyone for over ten years. Drain this lake, close the rift, and find the evidence. He will answer for this.”

As they turn the giant capstan, gears slowly shift underfoot, shaking the room and sending dust billowing into the air. The floodgates open with a grating groan and the Rusted Horn soon fills with the sound of roiling, rushing water. Maxwell locks the mechanism and then reaches out to steady a startlingly pale Dorian when the mage sways to the side.

“Are you all right?” he asks. “You’re-”

“I might vomit,” Dorian says in a strained voice. “Let’s leave before my stomach actually does.”

Outside the Rusted Horn, fine mist now shrouds the way past across the dam. The lake churns as water pours out the other side and feeds a previously dry riverbed. Maxwell leans over the edge to watch. “How long will it take to return to normal?”

“Hours, maybe,” Cassandra says.

“Can we please leave this blighted place?” Dorian asks. Cassandra stares at him. “I mean what I said.”

Maxwell has to lead him along with a hand on his elbow. The mist swirls around them in thick clouds… and abruptly disperses as something massive hurtles past them with enough force to throw them to the ground. Cassandra leaps to her feet, sword in hand, and Maxwell reaches for his but the threat is far out of reach. The massive reddish dragon soars into the gray sky with a furious cry, reminding him of the ear-splitting thunder of the Frostback high dragon that had claimed Lady Shayna’s Valley in the Hinterlands as hers.

“ _Kaffas_. A dragon, here,” Dorian mutters while slowly picking himself off the ground. He brushes himself off out of habit and succeeds in smearing dirt into his robes. “The day just keeps getting better.”

“Let’s hope she leaves the village alone,” Cassandra says. “I’d hate to have driven out the bandits only to set a high dragon on them.”

The lake slowly recedes while the Inquisition completes its sweep of Caer Bronach and settles in. When Maxwell looks out at it from the wall, he sees the silhouettes of waterlogged buildings along the exposed shore, covered in weeds and dying fish. He wonders how the villagers will feel when they see what remains of the old village. And what of the mayor? 

The rift is still out of reach except by boat and he wonders what he’s supposed to do now. 

Solas joins him at the battlements, arms folded behind his back. “As I understand it, Crestwood is near enough to Orzammar that one of their old roads could be running under this specific region. A villager I talked to claimed the darkspawn came out of a sinkhole down south. It’s reasonable to assume there is a network of caverns underneath. You may have to go underground to close the rift.” 

“You think it’s _underground_?” Maxwell asks. 

“A rift formed in solid stone has potential to catastrophically shift the land around it. That hasn’t happened here.”

That makes sense. A rift is a hole in the Veil, a way out for demons and a way in for Corypheus. A rift in solid stone could pull it into the Fade and cause cave-ins, collapses, and landslides. He looks out at the writhing green mass in the waters. “Are you saying if the rift formed in the lake it would’ve drained the water into the Fade?”

Solas considers it. “It’s possible.”

“But that hasn’t happened either. So, it’s underground and we need to find a way in.” He shudders at the thought. “Where do we start looking?”

“The rift is near old Crestwood. Once the water level is stable, we should investigate the area.”

When told about the rift, Cassandra suggests returning to the northern camp and striking out for old Crestwood the next day. It’s becoming too dark to travel, however, so Maxwell decides to spend the night at the village instead. The villagers welcome him with open arms, grateful for what he and the Inquisition have done for them. Maxwell returns their gratitude with a tight smile, trying not to think about what truths he might discover in the ruins of old Crestwood. 

Mayor Dedrick is watching him from afar, arms folded and face unreadable. Maxwell glances at Cassandra, wondering when they should talk to him, but she shakes her head. “Investigate the old village first. I want irrefutable proof before I confront him.”

The next morning, he sets out for old Crestwood with Cassandra, Solas, Dorian, and Cole. The water’s edge had receded considerably overnight and the Inquisition’s northern camp now overlooks a haunting sight - the skeletal remains of the old village. The roads are lined with thick carpets of spindleweed and long green leaves. Houses still stand but most are rotting down to their algae-coated foundations. Pale gray corpses and demons shuffle about in a macabre imitation of a living village. 

“It happened so fast,” Cole murmurs. “The water rose so quickly. Everything was dark and wet and so cold. Water in the tunnels and stone above my head. Everyone screaming, terrified, gurgling. I can’t get out.”

“Tunnels?” Maxwell asks. “So there’s a way underground here?”

“Yes. She’s sick. Coughing. Black in her veins, pale lips, pale eyes. He said to move her to the caves, nothing can save her. I won’t leave her. If she dies, she won’t be alone.”

* * *

The sun is shining. 

Maxwell stops in the shadow of the cave entrance, squinting up at the clearing blue sky. After days and days of gray rain and gloom, the bright warmth of the sun should be a welcoming sight. Instead he drops his gaze to the ground and holds his left hand to his chest tightly while trudging through the sodden hills to the road back to Caer Bronach. The others say nothing.

The rift had formed in a forgotten dwarven hall under the lake. The way down through to it was a cavern at the back of old Crestwood. They navigated through a cramped slippery tunnel dripping with water and smelling earthy and stale. It didn’t take long for them to find the first bodies, pressed up against a large crevice. After that, they were finding clammy gray corpses everywhere. It was all anyone could do not to retch at the sight of a pile of bodies in a tangled embrace, all struggling for the last gasps of air before water filled in.

There were no human bodies in the dwarven tunnels far below. A trail of wandering demons led them to the rift, a towering writhing green wound in the Veil that had formed in what appeared to be a ceremonial chamber. The rift was the first of its size that Maxwell encountered after Haven and he hesitated while approaching it, wondering if he could close it on his own. 

The rift chose for him. It flared in the presence of the anchor, thick ropes of magic lashing out and bursting bright green fire. The anchor burned through the cracks in his palm, fingers, wrist, and the rift seized it, dragging Maxwell to his knees. He cried out and tried to pull away but to no avail; it drew from him and tore open a hole into the Fade before Solas could purge its connection and free him. Maxwell watched, winded and shaking, as the rift spilled demons into the chamber.

“What was that?” Dorian demanded afterwards. He stood near Maxwell, wavering between reaching for him and keeping a conscious distance. “No rift ever reacted like that near the anchor.”

“I don’t know,” Solas said while picking residue from his robes, infuriatingly calm. “Whatever Corypheus did to the anchor must have made it more… susceptible to the pull of a ruptured Veil. I’ll need to study it more closely when we return to Skyhold.”

“Please do,” Maxwell said while slowly getting to his feet. Cassandra caught him when he collapsed immediately after.

An exuberant Crestwood hails him when they see him at the gate and he musters a smile when the villagers surround him and the others, shouting their gratitude and pledging their support for the Inquisition that saved them when no one else did. Their words wash over him but nothing sinks in. He feels utterly hollow and cold, like the rift drained something substantial from him, and it’s exhausting acting like the hero they think he is. 

He notices people glancing furtively between him and the mayor’s house up on the damp dirt road. Do they know? Probably not; the mayor kept his secret for over a decade. What should he do? Should he tell the soldiers to apprehend Dedrick? Should he send the man to Denerim with the waterlogged evidence?

“Your Worship,” Jana calls out when he’s halfway up the hill to the mayor’s house. “Are you looking for Mayor Dedrick?”

“I am,” he says slowly, suspiciously. “Why?”

She glances at the other villagers. “He’s… not here. He left during the night. Least that’s what Gauld said. Mayor told him to tell you there’s a letter on his desk. It’s for you.”

“His confession, most likely,” Cassandra says. “He knows we knows the truth.”

She’s right. The letter expresses the bare minimum of remorse Dedrick had for deciding to drown the blight-sickened refugees sheltering in the caves to escape the encroaching horde, even if it meant destroying his village and killing his people.

“The things people will do,” Dorian says quietly, distantly. He must be thinking of Felix and Alexius.

“It ate him away,” Cole murmurs, wandering around the mayor’s house. “It burned in his chest. It was his nightmare. Black and heavy like poison until he let it out.”

“And he chose to flee,” Cassandra says with finality while folding the letter and tucking it under her breastplate. “I’ll send word to nearby outposts. Dedrick must be brought in to answer for his crimes.”

“Who is he answering to, Seeker?” Solas asks. 

“That can be decided later,” she says and steps out of the house. “But I’m not having him wander free after what I saw.”

An unexpected party is present when they return to Caer Bronach. He hears Hawke’s voice before he sees the man, laughing loudly at whatever Varric said. He doesn’t pretend to hurry up the steps to see how the Champion had fared since their first encounter at Skyhold.

Hawke looks none the worse for wear despite the mud caked on his armor and boots. He seems impervious to the elements, an admirable trait. The Champion appears to be telling a story to several soldiers with helpful additions from Varric, but he notices soldiers saluting someone behind him and turns around. He smiles and offers Maxwell a short bow. 

“Inquisitor.”

“Champion,” he says. He looks around Caer Bronach but doesn’t see Bethany or Fenris. They must be elsewhere in the keep. “I hope you are well?”

“Nothing more than dodging Wardens and those strange templars,” Hawke replies. Varric snorts incredulously. “We arrived after dark yesterday, apparently missed you by two hours. I’m told you’re responsible for finally clearing the weather. Didn’t realize Inquisitors had that power. Must be useful.”

“The rift on the lake caused the rain,” he says, “and the demons and the undead. But it’s dealt with. We can resume searching for Stroud.” He looks around the courtyard and notices a lack of familiar faces. “Did I miss something?”

“Most of them are out helping the villagers clean up,” Varric says. “Crestwood has a lot to rebuild but it’ll manage.”

An elf, one of Leliana’s most trusted agents, steps into the conversation. She’s carefully holding a slip of paper while the ink dries. “Two more Warden parties passed through Crestwood earlier today, Worship. Luckily they didn’t notice any of our people in the hills and stayed clear of the village. They didn’t want to be seen.”

“What about Stroud? Are we any closer to finding him?”

“We’re looking around Three Trout Pond and the Black Fens in the south,” Charter replies. “Ground near the pond is unstable due to the sinkhole and a Northern Hunter has claimed the Fens. Natural deterrents so they’re the first places to look.”

“The… dragon, right?” He remembers the great red beast that flew past him, enraged by the disturbances the unlocked dam brought. “I hope no one disturbs her.”

“Strict orders not to provoke,” she says. “There’s one more thing. A small rift’s formed near Three Trout Pond. Gave Wardens a nasty surprise and they left the area immediately. It should keep them away until we find ours.”

“A rift,” Maxwell says. His left hand twitches. “Thank you.”

She nods and strides away to find a raven. Hawke hums thoughtfully next to him.

“Should take Bethany with you to deal with that,” he says. “She’s been wanting to see how the rifts and your… hand interact. Nearly drove Fenris mad speculating on the Fade and what other Wardens taught her.”

“But not today,” Cassandra says. She’s been watching Hawke with a funny expression and tightly folded arms. “Are you busy, Champion?”

“Oh no,” Varric sighs. “Seeker-”

“Not at all,” Hawke says with far too much cheer. He flashes both her and Varric a bright smile. “I hear you’re a big fan of Varric’s book. What do you want to know?”

When evening falls, the first over Crestwood with a clear dark sky and two bright moons, villagers and soldiers alike stream into the Rusted Horn. The Iron Bull and Blackwall invite Maxwell to a night of celebratory drinks but he declines and instead goes looking for a tent to crawl inside.

“But ser, Your Worship,” a soldier replies when he asks. “The rooms, I can have one cleaned out for your use-”

“I’m asking for a tent,” he says tersely, at the end of his rope after such a long day. “Please.”

He suddenly wakes hours later to deep night and a quiet Caer Bronach. Soldiers walk the battlements and the fires in the courtyard crackle while black wolves howl in the hills and water laps against the keep’s high stone perch. Dorian sits on the other side of the tent, reading by the light of a small wisp. Or rather, he was reading - there’s a book in his hands but his eyes are on Maxwell.

“Bad dream?” he asks.

Maxwell breathes deeply, feeling how rapidly his heart beats under clammy skin. He drags a hand down his face and slowly sits up. His hands are hot, stifling, sweating, and he pulls his gloves off. The tent lights up with an eerie green glow.

“If it helps,” Dorian says while Maxwell stares at the anchor, “Solas has a working theory that larger rifts need more power to close them. Explains why small rifts probably didn’t require more than a thought but the Breach nearly killed you. Luckily, even if the Breach weakened the Veil, it won’t be ripping dragon-sized holes into the Fade whenever it feels like it.”

He huffs a laugh and it sounds close to hysterical. “That’s your idea of helping?”

“I don’t think you’d appreciate being lied to,” Dorian says. He glances down at his book, then closes it and sets it aside. “Are you all right?”

Maxwell shrugs. “Caught me by surprise but now I’ll know what to expect.” He turns his hand over, tracing the web of Fade magic around his fingers and knuckles with his eyes. The anchor glimmers and glows like little cracks in a window seeping in light from the other side. 

“The next time we encounter a rift of that size,” Dorian says, “use my magic to power the anchor.”

“Like with the Breach? That rift in Haven?”

Dorian looks away. “Watching you fight with the rift and that mark was… I’d rather not see you go through that again.”

“I don’t either.” He rubs his fingers together and watches the strands spark with friction. The inside of his nose prickles and he stops. “Is there a way to get rid of this?”

The silence is telling and he looks up at Dorian, at the frown and furrowing eyebrows.

“Our friendly elven apostate knows more about the Fade than I do, so you’re better off asking him. But from my experience, magic that marks you in this manner tends to have a permanent effect. There’s no way to reverse it.”

“Solas did say it was a part of me now,” Maxwell says quietly. “So even after… I’ll never be able to hide it. Everyone will know who I am, whether I want them to or not.”

“Lucky for you,” Dorian says, “I think the anchor is just a small part of the charm.”

He can’t help smiling at the mage. “Oh? Is that so?”

“Fine, I’ll confess. I may have wanted to join your Inquisition because I had never seen magic like the anchor before. Back home, well, you can imagine how much we don’t want to be associated with the end of all life as we know it. Corypheus is walking talking destructive proof of that. But I may have also been interested in the man wielding such strange magic,” Dorian says and his voice drops to a low warm caress. “I could show you if you like.”

Maxwell shivers, flushes at the insinuation, while the mage crawls to his side of the tent. The wisp follows and Dorian banishes it with a gesture, leaving the anchor the only light. Dorian glances at the mark for a moment before turning his attention to its wielder and cups the side of his face with a warm hand. There are a few calluses on his palm from wielding a stave but his hand is softer, a result of years spent carrying books instead of swords and saddles. Maxwell leans into his hand, smiling crookedly, and his eyes slide shut when Dorian kisses him.

Ever mindful of the soldiers on the other side, Dorian kisses carefully, softly, with his thumb stroking along Maxwell’s stubbed jaw and lightly tracing the curving scars. Maxwell curls his fingers around the anchor to hide its telltale glow and wraps the other hand around the nape of Dorian’s neck to pull him closer. Dorian eases him down on rumpled clothes and bedrolls, settling on him like a warm grounding weight. Maxwell huffs a laugh when Dorian nuzzles at the rapid pulse on his neck and hooks an ankle around his, but the sound lodges in his throat when Dorian shifts and makes other things known.

“Maxwell?” Dorian asks, going completely still.

He wonders how to proceed, what to say. He glances sideways at the side of the tent and the faint silhouettes walking through moonlight. “If you want to keep things quiet, I don’t think this is the way to do it. But if you want that truly scandalous thing to happen now….”

Dorian sighs, bows his head and rakes a hand through his tousled hair. “You had to remind me.”

“I’m not averse to kissing,” Maxwell says and he laughs a little too loudly before obliging with another one.

When Maxwell wakes, it’s to weak sunlight pressing against the tent and the sounds of light rain and Dorian’s soft breathing against his ear. They had managed to tangle up in each other during the night and Dorian is curled around him, a knee between his and an arm around his waist. Maxwell tries not to think on the intimacy of it and shuts his eyes, willing himself back to sleep, but snippets of conversations start filtering in about wayward agents and Wardens. He knows he has to rise, and reluctantly pulls away without waking Dorian. He sits there for another minute, dragging a hand through his tousled hair and watching the mage sleep. He reaches over to rest his hand on top of Dorian’s, then rises to his feet and slips outside.

Blackwall and the Iron Bull are the first people he sees. They sit around a dampened fire with slumped shoulders; Blackwall’s face is terribly ashen and defeated and the Iron Bull looks only marginally better. The misty gray morning doesn’t help with their sallow miserable complexions.

“I… take it you had a lot to drink last night,” Maxwell says slowly.

Blackwall groans and the Iron Bull shrugs. His eyepatch is askew. “Heard about a rift south of here. If you need me to, Boss, I’ll puke on the demons to confuse them.”

Nearby, Sera bursts into laughter and Blackwall winces.

An hour later, while asking a soldier about the dents in his armor, Charter approaches. “We found him, Worship. As suspected, he’s hiding near Three Trout Pond.”

“Any news, Inquisitor?” Hawke hollers from the far side of the keep where he’s sharing breakfast with Varric, Bethany, and Fenris.

“We found Stroud,” he replies. “We leave within the hour.”

“Finally,” Fenris says while wiping his hands clean on Hawke’s shoulder. “I’m ready to leave this forsaken place for good.”

“What’s wrong with Ferelden?” Hawke protests.

“Everything.”

Sera starts cackling again.

* * *

As Solas theorized, Maxwell has no trouble sealing the small Veil tear near the sinkhole and an abandoned farm, the so-called Three Trout Farm. The anchor pulses brightly at contact and takes his breath away but he closes the rift with little effort. The anchor subsides to a faint green glow between the crevices of his gauntlet as he drops his hand to his side.

“That’s amazing,” Bethany breathes, staring between the space where the rift had hung and his hand. “Not just that it’s Fade magic but. It’s magic but you’re not a mage, you don’t have that connection like I do. Is it conscious for you? Do you sense the anchor at all times? Do you need to will it to close these rifts? Or are you just its… host and have no control over-”

“Don’t wear him out, dear sister,” Hawke says, slinging a muddy arm around her shoulders. She sputters and shoves him off to wipe it from her armor. “Come on. Stroud must’ve been waiting for days.”

The agents had told them of a smuggler’s den hidden in the hills just off the road. It’s a clever place for smugglers to hide their caches and an excellent place for a rogue Warden to lay low. Maxwell eyes the dried blood on the wooden barricades just beyond the entrance, wondering how many smugglers were forcibly vacated from the cave. Fenris lingers at the entrance to watch for other Wardens while he, Hawke, Bethany, Varric, and Blackwall enter.

“So, Hero,” Varric says, “you know Stroud?”

“I spent many years traveling on my own and rarely saw a fellow Warden, but I have heard of him. He’s a good man.”

“One of the best,” Bethany says. “When I got… sick, he didn’t want to take me but Anders convinced him I was worth the effort. He did everything he could to save me. He introduced me to other Warden mages and they taught me how to use my magic-”

Maxwell jerks back when a sword slices through the shadows to point at his throat. An Orlesian steps into the light, hard eyes boring into his and then darting around the cave. They soften at the sight of the Hawke siblings and the weatherworn man sheathes his sword.

“Bethany. Hawke. Varric.” He nods respectfully to Blackwell and then looks at Maxwell. “So, you must be the new Inquisitor.”

“I am.”

Stroud bows. “Your Worship. I regret not meeting you under better circumstances but I am glad you came. The situation is dire and I could not risk the information falling into the wrong hands. Has Bethany explained the Calling to you?”

“I did,” she says. “This is Corypheus’s doing, isn’t it? What is he trying to do with us?”

“I don’t know. Inquisitor, what do you know about Corypheus?”

“Not enough,” Maxwell says simply, “except he told me things he shouldn’t know.”

“That is true. Corypheus is darkspawn but not like any you’ll ever encounter. He’s intelligent, he can control other darkspawn and influence Wardens, he has memories no one should have. He is much like an archdemon if you ignore that he isn’t an Old God. That means he can survive seemingly mortal wounds.”

“Wonderful. So I didn’t kill him after all,” the Champion says. “None of you knew this?”

“We can’t get close enough without falling under his thrall, remember?” Bethany retorts.

“But archdemons _can_ be killed,” Maxwell says. “Five of them are already dead.”

“Only by a Warden and Corypheus is too dangerous for us to approach,” Bethany says.

“What we can do is foil whatever plans he has for us,” Stroud says. “Thanks to this… false Calling, Wardens in the Free Marches have gone underground. The ones in Orlais are going to the Western Approach. Warden-Commander Clarel’s orders.”

“The Approach? Whatever for?” Hawke asks.

“An old Warden fortress has been in the Approach since the end of the Second Blight. They are gathering there to determine how to respond to the next Blight. A Calling of this magnitude will be met with an equally extraordinary response.”

“But you said this is a false Calling,” Blackwall ventures. “Why do the others believe it is real?”

“It’s unprecedented. How could a sixth Blight already be upon us? But with both Ferelden’s current and former Warden-Commanders missing and Weisshaupt being too far away, Clarel declared it was real.” Stroud looks at Maxwell. “When a Blight is coming, any dissent within the ranks is answered swiftly and harshly. I questioned her judgment and she ordered me imprisoned. I escaped to warn the others, which is why we are meeting here and not at your fortress or Montsimmard.”

“Then we need to go to the Approach and tell her about Corypheus,” Hawke says. “The Inquisitor and I both laid eyes on him. Surely she’ll listen if we tell her.”

“If that is the plan, we must move quickly,” Stroud says. “I fear she already has a plan and is setting it into motion. I will go ahead to the Approach to investigate.” Stroud turns to Bethany. “Bethany, I must ask that you stay behind.”

“What? Why?”

“When she gave the order to go to Adamant, she asked for all mages to come at once. Until I know why, I want you to stay as far away from Orlais as possible.”

She clenches her hands and the cold dank air prickles. “You know you can’t ask me that.” She rounds on Hawke before he can open his mouth. “And you! Don’t you even think about it, Brother. My people are in danger. I need to help.”

Hawke sighs. “If you’re going, then so am I.”

“Hawke,” Varric warns. “It’s not your fight.”

“I’m the reason why Corypheus is out there somewhere trying to end the world. I’m the reason why Bethany is even involved in this. I’m not staying away from the mess I made, I told you.”

“It’s not - I’m the one who - if Seeker hadn’t-” Varric bites back the rest of his argument and shakes his head. “Never mind. Just. Just be safe. That’s all I ask.”

“I will. Tell the others where we’re headed next? Aveline-”

“I know.”

Stroud bows to Maxwell again. “I will send for you when I learn what Clarel is planning to do, Your Worship. Maker watch over you. Hawke, it will be best if you….”

Fenris meets them at the entrance and only raises an eyebrow when Varric fills him in on their meeting. He rests a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder and quietly stalks inside. Maxwell watches the elf disappear into the cave, glances at the tattered red favor around the elf’s right arm before the shadows swallow him, lyrium lines and all.

“They’ll be all right,” Maxwell says on the way back to Caer Bronach. “You know they will be.”

“I wish I had your optimism,” Varric says. “The shit we’ve been through… thought people would leave us alone after Kirkwall but no, we had to have a war and the Divine had to send Seeker and Nightingale to find him for their Inquisition. Corypheus had to survive his fight with us and try to end the world. Why can’t we catch a freaking break?”

“I don’t know.”


	7. andraste 14: the weight of a beating heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know when you return to Skyhold after wrapping up a region and you have to run around talking with the Inner Circle and doing war table missions? That's what this chapter is, except with more expansion on and exploration of various little plot threads.

“So this might also be Corypheus’s doing,” Leliana muses while studying the large map of southern Thedas in the drafty war room. “Explains why the Wardens all suddenly disappeared.”

“You know the Order better than anyone here,” Cassandra tells Fiona. “You must know how they would respond to a threat like this.”

“In case you forgot, I was no longer in the Order when the Fifth Blight came and the Orlesian Wardens could not enter Ferelden anyway,” she says. “But I heard plenty about the previous Blights. The first thing you must understand is that the Wardens are beholden to the whims of no city, no kingdom, no empire, no Chantry. Whatever can be done to end the Blight _will be done_ , regardless of the law and of your opinions on their chosen methods.”

“You mean they’ll even use blood magic,” Maxwell deduces.

Fiona shrugs. “Whatever it takes. I would not go that far but I understand why other Wardens would. I left before I could learn the true nature of these Callings but I know they tell the Wardens if a Blight is coming. Whatever Warden-Commander Clarel plans to do will be drastic, if not dangerous. Anything is possible in this day and age.” 

She cocks her head to the side while eyeing the barren lands representing the Western Approach. There is a large dot at the edge of the Abyssal Rift labeled “Adamant Fortress”. “I just don’t see how any of it benefits Corypheus.”

“I’ll send scouts to the Approach. They’ll know what to look for that Stroud and Hawke may not,” Leliana says. “I suppose we were lucky that Stroud’s Warden senses were tingling.”

When she notices everyone staring at her, she quirks a smile and says, “Just something an old friend used to say.”

_The Hero of Ferelden_ , Maxwell realizes, watching her eyes glaze over with memories. Did Ferelden’s queen disappear because of the false Calling? He looks at the eastern half of the map. Can they find her and warn her about Corypheus? Or did she already know? He wouldn’t put it past her; Queen Elissa is quite possibly capable of doing anything short of entering the Black City.

“And what of Crestwood’s mayor?” Cassandra asks. “Have you found him yet?”

“No, but we have his trail,” Cullen replies. “He’ll be in custody soon enough.”

“Once we do, I’ll inform Denerim,” Josephine says. “The crimes he committed-”

“He lied to us and endangered his own people _twice_ ,” Cassandra interrupts. “If he had told us sooner, more of his village would be alive today, a small price to pay for revealing his secret. No, bring him here and let the Inquisitor judge him for his crimes. Let him decide the mayor’s fate.”

“King Alistair won’t like this,” Cullen warns.

“Alistair won’t mind,” Leliana says. “If not for us, no one would have found out and an entire village will have disappeared. He’ll have less on his plate and we can exercise our authority as the Inquisition.”

“It’s not our business-”

“What he did to old Crestwood isn’t,” Cassandra says, “but what he didn’t do when a rift opened up under that lake is. And since it was his tampering with the dam ten years ago that started it, we have the right to judge him first.”

Josephine sighs. “Very well. I’ll draw up a declaration that the Inquisitor will sit in judgment once Dedrick is brought here.”

Maxwell slowly looks up from the map, thoughts on the Battle of Denerim scattering from his mind. “... I’m doing what?”

* * *

_My dearest Maxwell,_

_Nothing I write can properly express my relief upon learning what became of you and the Inquisition but I will try._

_Haven’s sudden destruction left us all in such a terrible shock. You can imagine how Father and Mother took it. I could not sleep for days. Mother Meraud had no answers, no comfort to give. When I asked the Maker why He took another brother from me, He did not speak. A month passed and then one morning I woke to Lady Buttlefort at the gates with the most astonishing news. Inquisition banners were flying from an old fortress in the Frostback Mountains and you, my little brother, were named the new Inquisitor._

_It is all anyone will talk about now. Father and Mother seem ready to forgive your past slights if you’ll let them. Aunts and uncles and far-flung cousins are knocking down the door, asking about you, if you sent word, gifts, invitations to your mountain fortress. Do not let them trouble you. Lady Buttlefort assures me that your ambassador will keep them busy while you do the Maker’s work. I see you rolling your eyes at me but who else kept you alive during your terrible ordeal? Do not doubt Andraste’s reasons for saving you. She found you worthy. Take comfort in that and draw strength from her faith in you. She saw your good heart and entrusted it with our future._

_If you had not guessed it, I am still in Ostwick. Father and Mother insist I stay until they are certain the roads are safe. They might even ask that you send an escort to usher me back home. Do not even think of attempting that nonsense. Your efforts are better spent on making the world right again. I miss Aurel and Coreen dearly but knowing they are safe and that you are alive is more important to me. But if you can, please send Coreen a gift. She is approaching five healthy summers and I wish her to know that at least one of her uncles remembers her. A little bauble will do, something harmless and memorable._

_I know you will not care but Edric has gone to Tantervale for the foreseeable future. He is to work for Renata. You remember her, don’t you? She hosted that fête during the Grand Tourney five years ago. If ever you visit home, you will never have to see him again. And I know you are always awaiting word on Hildred, Oswald, and Evelyn, but I had no luck finding them. They found me. A dwarf peddler came to the gates one morning with a letter from Hildred, claiming she gave it to him on the outskirts of Weyrs. They are all alive and well, and shocked at the news coming from the south. They are traveling to Wycome but I worry. Last I heard, people are falling ill to a sickness no one can explain. I wish I could find and tell them to stay away but I have faith in Hildred to keep them safe._

_I trust you as well to take care of yourself. I have little to offer to your cause but I have something to offer as your sister and family. You know what it is and I am glad you are too far away to protest. Keep it close. Let it remind you of who you are. Let it protect and guide you just as it protected and guided our family through the ages._

_Maker light your path and may the winds bring you back home when it is all over._

_Lady Adelyn Lenore Seong Trevelyan Montfort_

_I took the liberty of sending twenty-five of our finest Rangers with this letter. Only the best for my brother and those fighting alongside him._

 

The letter was waiting on his desk when he returned from Crestwood. It has been over a week now and he still hasn’t answered it.

How does he begin? Apologize for never sending word, for never speaking to them except through Josephine and Lady Buttlefort? He had left that life far behind by the time he came to Haven with Mother Edith, after a year on the run with the family that cared about him more than the family that cared about what he could do to them. Even when he returned to Ostwick for the Conclave, he stayed in the chantry while helping Mother Edith prepare for the journey south. He never went back to the house where he grew up.

Adelyn was the only one who visited him in that time, the only one who asked if the others were well, if he was well. Twelve years separated them but she tried to bridge that yawning gap before she could lose another Trevelyan. She’s still trying to bridge it now.

It makes him waver, makes his hands tremble as he reaches for the small hinged box on his large desk. It is carved from dark wood, patterned with delicately etched clouds, mountains, and waves. It’s an old box; he saw it once on his mother’s dresser, once when she pressed it into Adelyn’s hands after her wedding. It is one of a pair and they are never separated. For Adelyn to send him hers… he rubs his eyes and ignores the damp on his knuckles as he opens the little old box and beholds the pale green stone ring inside.

He thinks of the old history in every polished facet, in every bit of wear in the ring. He thinks of the twenty-five Marcher steeds in Dennet’s stable, wearing distinct silk browbands on their halters. He looks at the box and remembers the Waking Sea crashing against the steep cliffs, the salty fog and the screaming gulls, the city markets and the small chantry. He remembers the house he grew up in, Captain Carrine and Brother Benson, the hardy hills that fed the horses that grace the Trevelyan crest.

But there is no going back, not after all he’d seen and survived. He is the Inquisitor now.

Still, he has a letter to write. Adelyn made the effort and he can’t continue ignoring it. He puts pen to paper, picking his words with care because he doesn’t have the luxury of open honesty anymore. He tells Adelyn about their brother Edmund and Mother Edith, two of the many victims at the Conclave. He tells her about his encounters with King Alistair Theirin and Kirkwall’s Champion, about the people who gathered under the Inquisition’s banner. He wonders if she’ll believe any of it, but who wouldn’t? There was a Breach in the sky and Andraste pulled him out of the Fade.

He wonders if he should tell her about Dorian. 

After the wax seal cools - he still marvels at it, at the thought that it’ll grace the homes of powerful nobles and rulers - he heads to the rookery. Josephine may be the proper channel but he doesn’t want fanfare with the letter’s arrival. These words are for Adelyn alone.

The rookery is full of crates, cages, and agents who greet him with nods and murmurs. He responds with a dip of his head and then ducks to avoid a raven.

Leliana isn’t alone. Vivienne is with her, talking quietly and occasionally glaring at a wayward black feather falling around her. There is a small leather-bound book in her hands.

“... easy finding this particular text,” Vivienne is saying.

“It was no trouble,” Leliana says. Her eyes slide to the mage’s left. “Ah, Inquisitor.”

“Leliana. Vivienne. I’m not interrupting, am I?”

“Not at all,” Vivienne says. “Thank you, my dear. When the next shipment comes, you may have your pick. I insist.”

She turns to Maxwell and looks him over with a critical eye. “My dear Inquisitor, try wearing the clothes Josephine commissioned for you every now and then. I spied dignitaries from Starkhaven entering her office earlier this morning and they are still here. I’m sure they’ll appreciate a better impression of His Worship if he was wearing finery appropriate for his station and not… that.”

“I’ll consider it,” he replies awkwardly, resisting the urge to pick at the ends of his plain shirt tucked under the sash, and steps aside to let the court enchanter pass.

“Well,” Leliana says, “while she isn’t wrong, Josie hasn’t scheduled anything involving you and the dignitaries today. You have something for me to send?”

“It’s for my sister, in Ostwick.”

“Why not ask Josephine?”

“I don’t want anybody else to know about it.”

Leliana tilts her head curiously. “I see. Leave it to me, Inquisitor.”

“Thank you. Any word from Stroud?”

She smiles. “You have to remember that even if he’s traveling alone, it’ll take at least a month to reach the Western Approach unnoticed. He also needs time to investigate Warden movements in the region and it may be another month before he sends word of his findings. And don’t worry - my people are following him from a distance. They’ll tell me if something went wrong.” 

Leliana goes to one of the cages housing the ravens and observes its sleeping occupant. The bird has a bandaged wing and she lets it be. “I also have some news regarding your… image problem. Charter found a breaker willing to come teach you. Her name is Thram.”

He stares at her blankly until the word clicks. The Iron Bull called those who train reavers breakers, an ominous title for people who teach violence and terror on the battlefield. The unsavory stories bubble back up to the surface and he shifts anxiously, wondering if he’s making a mistake.

“Do you know that there are some very old stories about the founder of House Theirin, the kind that aren’t talked about in polite company?” Leliana suddenly says. “They say Calenhad craved and sought power wherever he could and in whatever form. In order to become the warrior he is said to be today, he drank the blood of a great dragon. Every member of the Theirin family has a little bit of dragon in them, or so they say.”

He tries to imagine Ferelden’s king the way she described it. King Alistair may have been cold when they met but there wasn’t anything… dragonish about him. “It’s just a story.”

“All stories start somewhere, no?”

She leaves to instruct an agent about the letter and he wanders to the rail to stare down at the tower’s floors. Solas is at his desk in the atrium but he’s not alone; Dorian is leaning on it, talking animatedly about something or other. Maxwell watches them until something - a raven returning home with a loud caw, perhaps - compels Dorian to look up. They stare at each other until Solas looks up, too, wondering what caught his companion’s attention. Maxwell quickly retreats and leaves the tower through a side door opening onto Vivienne’s decorated landing. She hums a dismissive greeting while turning the yellow pages of the little leather-bound book.

Maxwell bowls over one of the Starkhaven dignitaries in his haste to leave the keep and apologizes profusely while helping the man back to his feet. The noble accepts his apology curtly, dismisses him, and turns back to his companions and Josephine only to learn that the young man skipping down the stairs to the courtyard is the Lord Inquisitor.

* * *

Skyhold has a garden.

It wasn’t a priority when the Inquisition began rebuilding itself and the fortress, but as scaffolding came down from the newly repaired towers and walls, Josephine proposed putting work into a small overgrown courtyard adjacent to the keep.

“It would be good to have a secluded place for peace and quiet. It would also make an excellent alternative to my office when I hold court with visiting nobles. We can make it a chantry garden and turn its care over to Mother Giselle.”

“Or we can use it as an actual garden,” Leliana had replied. “Healers and alchemists can grow their own herbs instead of waiting on shipments or roaming the mountains. A corner of it can be dedicated to the faithful.”

They both looked at Maxwell and he opened his mouth to ask exactly _why_ they needed his opinion on the matter. He ended up saying, “We need something practical.”

People were, quite frankly, _enthusiastic_ about Skyhold’s new garden and cleared the courtyard of debris and weeds in less than a week. Planters now line the low stone walls bordering the garden, housing elfroot and embrium shoots. The garden itself is populated with young trees and flowering bushes, though none are budding yet. A gazebo stands in the corner like Leliana suggested, sheltering a statue of Andraste, and it doesn’t take long for green vines to climb up and around the gazebo, framing the statue in lush life.

“We are blessed,” someone had said while contemplating it. “The Maker favors us.”

Josephine likes using the garden when receiving more fickle visitors, believing it puts them at ease and makes them more agreeable to her suggestions and terms. She’s using it now to entertain wealthy merchants from Tantervale. Unfortunately, Maxwell is in the garden, too, sitting on a stone bench and trying to read. He swears he recognizes a few faces in the group and slowly raises his book to his face while hunching his shoulders, hoping they don’t notice the Lord Inquisitor sitting just a few feet away.

Trust Skyhold’s resident revered mother to sit next to him, endangering his anonymity.

“Inquisitor,” Mother Giselle says softly. Her eyes spark like she knows exactly why he’s doing what he’s doing. “Sister Petrine’s _The Exalted Marches: An Examination of Chantry Warfare_. Light reading or a desire to enlighten oneself on the Chantry’s history?”

“Both, perhaps,” he replies. “I want to remember how the Chantry fared in their Marches, especially what happened afterward. I don’t want to make the same mistakes.”

“Spoken with such conviction,” she says. “So different from our conversations in Haven.”

“I wasn’t sure of anything back then.” He looks down at the open book and the notes scribbled in the margins. “If I’m supposed to change the Chantry, I want to do it _right_.”

“Is there such a way? No matter what you or I do, there will always be people who disagree. They will whisper, they will protest, they will obstruct, they will even incite rebellion and violence.”

“Better than doing nothing or pretending nothing’s broken,” Maxwell says. “My family counts mages and templars among them, and they all told me what life was like. What it was like being… imprisoned within a Circle or obeying a knight-commander’s questionable orders just to have their lyrium the next day. How did nobody think they’d eventually revolt?”

“It is in our nature to wilfully ignore trouble that threatens what we believe about the world,” Mother Giselle says. “But the faults of men should not dissuade you from your faith.”

Is this why she’s sitting with him, threatening to expose him to the Tantervale merchants seeking his favor? He wonders what gave him away. “I have faith, Mother Giselle, but not in the Chantry.”

“And why is that?”

He presses his lips tightly, hesitant. “You know my family. The younger ones are expected to pledge themselves the templars or the Chantry. To serve in whatever capacity for as long as we live. As a child, I was supposed to go to Starkhaven but I didn’t. Instead I saw my sister’s magic manifest to protect me. I heard her screaming for me, Adelyn, my mother and father, when the templars took her away the next day. I didn’t understand why he let them and I begged him to bring her back, she’s never left home before. All he did was quote Transfigurations and order me to go to my lessons, and to never speak of this again.”

“So you blame the Chantry for taking your sister away.”

He sighs. “We’re not the only ones with family in the Circles, but I only know that because I overheard things. Nobody talks about them. It’s like they stopped being family once they showed they had magic. But how could I forget Evie? It didn’t seem fair. It didn’t seem _right_. They don’t stop being part of your family just because they’re mages. They don’t stop being… people.”

Mother Giselle studies him. “Few come to the defence of others so unlike them.”

“Shouldn’t have to be just a few,” he mutters. His index finger curls against the pages, over Dorian’s scathing remarks on the Llomerryn Accords. “She’s my sister. She’s why I came to the Conclave, why I chose to accept Fiona’s invitation. She’s the reason why I’m not putting the Chantry first in my decisions.”

“But you will have to address the Chantry, whether you want to or not,” she says. “As the Inquisitor, you’re expected to determine the Chantry’s future path. That does not mean you can just wish it all away. The Chantry lasted for a thousand years despite its faults because it served a world that needed it. If you give the Chantry a new vision, a new path, it can last for a thousand more and mean something to more people, especially the forgotten ones.” She reaches over and squeezes his hand. “Your sister is lucky to have someone with a heart like yours for a brother. Use it to help the world. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Mother Giselle rises to her feet and walks away to intercept Josephine and her guests. He swears the revered mother winks at him before directing them back to the garden, taking them to the gazebo sheltering Andraste’s statue. Maxwell shuts his book and slips away to find peace and quiet elsewhere.

* * *

Books continue appearing on his desk. One day he wakes to _Flame and Scale_ by Brother Florian, a discussion of cults surrounding the reappearance of high dragons. Another morning brings _The Old Gods Rise Again_ by Sister Mary and from the first page he finds essays in the margins expanding on a single sentence or lines of ink crossing out entire paragraphs.

“Since when did you find time to annotate this?” he asks, leaning on a bookcase in Dorian’s alcove. He holds up _The Old Gods Rise Again_. “Five hundred pages of you mocking Sister Mary?”

“My dear Inquisitor,” Dorian says while studying the spines of the books he already sorted and put away, “I helped discover time magic. You couldn’t possibly comprehend the months I dedicated to research, the weeks I spent with my nose glued to stacks of books taller than your resident Qunari _and_ written in barely legible ancient Tevene. Correcting this poor woman’s misunderstandings about the history of my country’s war with the Qun is a laughably easy endeavour by comparison.”

Maxwell huffs while tucking the book under his arm but he doesn’t leave, content to watch the mage browse the shelves. A full minute passes before Dorian gives up pretending to reorganize his part of the library. He glances at Maxwell, the corner of his mouth curling upwards in amusement. “See anything you like?”

How easy it would be to step in close and kiss him, to feel that warm mouth against his and to breathe in that faint rich smoky scent. But he remembers what Dorian asked of him so he only says, “Was hoping you’d recommend me something on Tevinter that’s up to your terribly exacting standards.”

“You could always ask me more questions. I do love hearing myself talk.”

“So do I,” Maxwell says easily and is rewarded with a fond smile. “Then maybe you can explain why, on page two hundred eighty-six-”

“Inquisitor!”

He catches a glimpse of Dorian rolling his eyes in exasperation while turning around to see a breathless agent staggering up the steps, unaware of the scowls from the other mages and researchers on the floor. The elf leans against the stone wall, catching her breath, and then straightens to appear presentable.

“What is it?” Maxwell asks.

“It’s… about the… arcanist in Tant… Tantervale, Your Worship. The… one Lady Josephine… negotiated safe… passage for? She’s here… in the Undercroft. She wants an audience. With you, Worship.”

“All right. Tell her I’ll be there.” After the agent leaves, he looks at Dorian apologetically. “Let’s talk later.”

“Later” is well after most of Skyhold has gone to bed. Maxwell is still awake, sitting at his desk and turning over a small rune in his hands. It’s a gift from the Inquisition’s new resident arcanist, a dwarf named Dagna. Harritt had bemoaned her cheery presence and her crafting equipment, asking if she could set up shop elsewhere so that he could have some peace of mind. Personally, Maxwell found her to be pleasant and excitable company and thought Harritt could benefit from the new partnership.

“No, thank _you_ ,” she said when he gave his thanks for her offer of assistance. “You’re like the second person to give me a chance like this.”

He couldn’t help asking. “Who’s the first?”

“A Warden who came to Orzammar looking for some help. She managed to convince Ferelden’s Circle Tower to take me in as a researcher. It was a dream come true! Not that I know what that’s like. Dreaming, I mean.”

“Why join a Circle if you can’t use magic?” he said slowly, trying to put the pieces together. Then, “A Warden?”

It seems one cannot escape the far-reaching influence of Queen Elissa Theirin.

“What he makes,” Dagna said, nodding to a disgruntled Harritt who was hammering out a dent in one of Blackwall’s pauldrons and pretending not to listen in on them, “I can enchant. I can also provide perspectives on magical anomalies that others might miss.”

“Like this?” Maxwell raised his left hand, showing her the anchor.

Her eyes widened and a slow smile formed on her face. He wondered if he should fear for his hand. “Yes, exactly like that. I heard so much about how you came by it and what it can do, but to see it in person is something else. Wow. It’s so _green_.”

Harritt coughed wildly into his elbow, not that Dagna noticed as she proceeded to bombard Maxwell with questions about how he obtained it, what it does, and the rifts he encountered. She gave him the rune before he left, promising it was harmless even if lyrium was involved in its crafting. It seems harmless enough though it’s hot in his hands and glimmers with its own light. He’d seen similar enchantments before at the Grand Tourney but they always resulted in disqualifications and scorn if discovered. What he contends with is a matter of life and death, though, so if she can help defeat Corypheus, he won’t refuse her services.

He sets the rune down next to Adelyn’s box and sits back in his chair, staring at his unmade bed. He can’t sleep but isn’t in the mood to go down to the courtyard with his sword. Instead, he pulls on a coat and heads to the library tower. Patrolling soldiers greet him as he crosses the keep and climbs the stairs to the second floor. Helisma is at her station when he enters the library, quietly and neatly organizing her desk. He wonders what research is keeping her up so late.

“Inquisitor,” she intones when he approaches.

“Helisma,” he murmurs. “All is well?”

“Yes, Inquisitor,” she says. “I have completed my report as requested. If you wish, I can give you a copy tomorrow morning.”

“That won’t be necessary. Just make sure Leliana sees it.” He spots a faint light in Dorian’s alcove. “Have a good night.”

He treads quietly around the second floor, which is lit by candles and Solas’s veilfire torch down below, and peers into the alcove. A wisp floats around Dorian’s head while he reads a letter, nestled comfortably in one of the many ornate chairs Josephine commissioned. Several stacks of books with gilded pages sit at his feet while an opened crate is shoved haphazardly into a corner of the alcove.

“More books?” Maxwell asks.

Dorian looks up sharply and then relaxes. He folds up the letter while saying. “A gift from Felix.”

“Really? How is he?”

“Well, all things considered.” Dorian tucks the letter away and sits forward with a solemn expression. “Soon, he said. The potions he takes no longer help control his… symptoms. He may already be dead.”

“Don’t say that,” Maxwell says.

“Why not? You know what happens,” Dorian says. He picks absentmindedly at his meticulously filed nails, at his rings, his gloves. “Pretending otherwise would just insult him.”

Maxwell sighs. “All right. I’m sorry.”

Dorian reaches down to pick up one of the books, an old thing bound in faded leather. “He promises he is comfortable and happy to do what he can while he still has time. These books he sent are on ancient Tevinter history and the origins of the Blight.”

“What does he think you’ll find?” 

“Some figments of truth about Corypheus. If what he claims is true, then he’s in our records somewhere.” Dorian nudges one of the stacks towards Maxwell. “This one’s for you. Everything else is in Tevene.”

He still looks terribly uneasy and Maxwell wonders if he should ask. What are the boundaries when nobody’s here to witness?

“It’s late,” he decides to say. “Why are you still here?”

Dorian tilts his head to the open crate. “It arrived a little after you left to welcome the newest recruit. I understand she’s a dwarf and an arcanist. Highly unusual - but then again, this is the Inquisition. These books are from Alexius’s personal library. Felix wouldn’t have much use for it after he passes and thought they’d be better off in my capable hands. I wasn’t about to let anybody else put them where they belong so I….” He huffs. “I may have dozed off.”

“Why am I not surprised.”

“You should ask Felix. He’ll….” Dorian sighs and drags a hand through his hair. “He would’ve had a lot to say about me. Mostly flattering, I assure you, but experimental magic isn’t without its dangers.”

Maxwell laughs. “I’m sure you didn’t mean it.”

“He found it funnier than Alexius did. It’s the closest he could get to magic. Felix had very little talent for it. Surprising, I imagine, but he had quite the mathematical mind to make up for it. If not for his sickness, he could’ve done some real good here. Instead, you have me.”

“I think you’re doing just fine,” Maxwell says.

Dorian looks at him, wondering, and then rises to his feet. He backs Maxwell up against the bookcases and leans in, bracing himself against a shelf packed tightly with old sweet-smelling books. He searches Maxwell’s face, looking for an answer to an unasked question. “You say these things.”

“I mean it,” Maxwell says. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands or his lungs or his heart. He doesn’t know what to do with the flicker of surprise in Dorian’s eyes, or the heavy creaking cases behind him. “I do.”

“You really are something,” Dorian says affectionately and kisses him, lightly at first and then deeply when he opens his mouth.

Kissing Dorian is addicting. His mouth is warm and slick, and his tongue curls in a way that makes Maxwell’s heart jump. Dorian presses him against the shelves and books, a hand cradling the back of his head and another gripping his hip a little too tightly. Maxwell shivers and pulls the mage in by the collar while returning every kiss.

Maxwell leaves the library a half-hour later, book tucked under his arm and his head down to avoid drawing attention. He still feels Captain Katarin’s eyes following him across the keep to his quarters and rakes a hand through his tousled hair in a failed attempt to tame it. Once the heavy door shuts behind him, he lets himself smile. His mouth feels bruised, lips swollen with kisses, and he likes it just fine.

He settles on the couch with the book and reads until he finally falls asleep.

* * *

“Inquisitor,” an agent says when Maxwell steps out of the shabby tower housing the requisitions office. “Sister Nightingale wishes to inform you that the breaker Thram is here. She waits on the battlements next to Commander Cullen’s office.”

He knows the Iron Bull only has the best intentions but he still hesitates while the agent waits for a response. He can’t shake off his unease over reavers and the promise of violence and brutality. Then he remembers what happened at Crestwood and he tells the agent, “Lead the way.”

An elf is on the ramparts, brown-skinned with closely cropped sun bleached hair and tattoos on her face. Her back is ramrod straight, her head held high, and she watches him approach with hard eyes. Her armor doesn’t hide the scars on her arms and legs, and the edge of one across her collarbone. He wonders if she displays them on purpose.

“You are the Inquisitor?” she asks in a sharp voice.

He freezes. “Were… you expecting someone else?”

“You are not the one I heard of. You walk with fear,” the breaker Thram says. “Fear of what I offer. Are you really so afraid? If you are, then I will leave. You’ll just be wasting my time and yours.”

“I don’t even know what it is you offer,” Maxwell says while the agent quietly slips away.

“You don’t?” Thram walks around him. “Power, Inquisitor. Power and fear. You were chosen to make sense of a lawless world. I am here to show you how to make your enemies fear you. I am here to teach you how to harness your wrath.”

“I’m… not convinced,” Maxwell says. Everything she says sounds true to the books he read, not what the Iron Bull told him. “And why do I want people to be afraid of me?”

“They already are,” she replies. “Andraste chose you. You wield a powerful magic. You survived the impossible not once but twice. Why shouldn’t they be afraid? These people-” She looks down at the bustling courtyard. “-do not fear you because you protect them. Your enemies, the people who wish ill upon you and your Inquisition, they are the ones who should be afraid. They should think twice about crossing your path.”

“That… makes sense.”

“Of course it does.” Her eyes rake over him, assessing, searching. He feels terribly exposed. “I was told you fight like one of us. Show me.”

Before Maxwell knows it, he’s standing in the practice ring, lightly armored and gripping a borrowed greatsword tightly while watching Thram and the crowd gathering around them. The Iron Bull stands head and shoulders above the others and Maxwell promises himself to ask for Sera’s help if this ends in a disaster. Another glance around the courtyard and he sees Leliana and Cullen on the walkway bridging the library tower and the gatehouse. Sera is leaning on the windowsill in her room above the Herald’s Rest and Dorian idles by the keep’s doors.

What will they think of him when this is over? He swallows hard and forces himself to focus on Thram.

“Do not hold back,” is Thram’s only instruction and then she charges.

Maxwell waits until the last second and twists away, rams his elbow into her side. She stumbles but quickly recovers and launches herself at him again. This time he meets her sword and his arms shake from impact; she’s much stronger than she looks. He pushes her back but she comes at him again with long strides, greatsword swinging at his chest. He backs away, ducking her heavy swings and trying to find an opening, a weakness. She doesn’t give him one; though slower than expected, she moves with such power and presence that he keeps hesitating and wasting precious seconds.

“Why are you holding back?” she demands when he ducks away from another swing. “Stop running. Fight me. Hit me. Kill me!”

“I’m not hurting you!” he retorts. He blocks another blow and darts out of the way, leading her around the ring and trying to tire her out. “You can’t ask me that.”

“You say that to your enemies?” Thram asks harshly. “You think they’ll admire you? Respect you? You think they’ll leave you alone? You think they won’t just kill you?”

She lunges and he jumps back. She channels her momentum into her swinging sword and brings it down on his head. He throws himself out of the way, rolls on his shoulders, and jumps back up to see her yanking her sword out of a splintered fence post. She stares at the crowd as it recoils from her and then turns on him. Her presence seems to _swell_ , a brutal heat radiating from her slim hard frame and that can’t be right, that can’t be of her own doing. She comes at him again, eyes wild and teeth bared, blade glinting in the sun. 

_She’s going to kill me._

He blocks her sword but barely and stumbles back. She strikes again and he’s too slow getting away; the tip of her sword rips into his right upper arm. He hisses from the pain and retaliates, blocking her next strike and shoving her back. He doesn’t let her recover, follows her across the ring with another swing of his sword. She deflects it but he pushes through and strikes her again. She twists away and smashes her sword pommel into his right shoulder. He clenches his teeth at the jarring pain and throws her back with a wild swing. 

Thram deflects another blow and kicks the inside of his knee, knocking him off-stride. When he turns on her, her sword is pointing at the hollow of his throat. “Enough! I have what I need.”

Maxwell stares at her, heaving, sweat pouring down his face and back. His heart pounds in his head like drums and his right arm won’t stop trembling. Slowly he loosens his grip on the greatsword and lets his arms fall to his side.

“I see why Commander Cullen requested my services,” she says after a moment. Her left thigh sports a long ragged wound and blood is dripping into her boot. When did that happen? “When you are ready, Inquisitor, meet me on the battlements.”

She leaves the practice ring, carving a wide path through the awestruck onlookers. Maxwell stares at the back of her head and then looks around for the Iron Bull. The Qunari is already wading to the front of the whispering crowd and elbows his way to the fence.

“Boss,” the Iron Bull says and holds out a waterskin.

He snatches it and empties half of it into his mouth. He squeezes out the rest on his head and pushes wet hair out of his eyes. He lets the salty water drip from his face while waiting for his heart to slow and then hands the waterskin back. “What’s the verdict?”

“I wasn’t wrong,” the Iron Bull says. “Takes you a bit to wind up but once you get going, _well_. Feels good letting loose like that, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t know.” He pushes apart the torn edges of his bloody sleeve and stares at the red gash Thram’s sword left behind. There was no “letting loose” until she struck him and drew blood, and when he did, he wasn’t feeling gleeful like the Iron Bull usually does; he was angry, outraged, determined to return the favor. He’s not proud of it. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Why not? The way you fight, you’re just asking to get hurt real bad. And the more you hurt, the angrier you get, which is good _if_ you know how to use it.” The Iron Bull leans in, whispering loudly, “Best way to scare those bastards is to laugh and hit back twice as hard, make them regret living long enough to meet you.”

“I don’t want to scare them, Bull.”

“You want them to kill you instead? Corypheus isn’t afraid of you. He marched on us to take your little magic hand back. You want him to try again?”

“No,” Maxwell says immediately.

The Iron Bull nods to the ramparts. “Go talk to her. Let her make her offer. Then decide if you want to learn.”

_Or break._ “What if I refuse?”

“Then you’re back to your image problem. Plenty of templars here if you want to know how to fight demons and Vints. Or ask Blackwall. He may be a Warden but he’s got an Orlesian’s fancy footwork. Or make it up as you go and hope you know what you’re doing. It’s up to you.”

Maxwell stares at his feet, contemplating. He doesn’t have to make his decision now, right? He can hear what Thram offers, then talk to the others like the Iron Bull says. He can ask Cullen and Barris, perhaps even Cassandra. He can talk with Blackwall. Or he can… he remembers Crestwood and shakes his head. No, he can’t make things up anymore. He’s the Inquisitor now. He needs to know what he’s doing.

“I’ll talk to her,” he says.

He climbs the stairs to the battlements and the soldiers stationed there salute him. He notices them watching him with wide eyes as he passes. One even takes an involuntary step back and drops her gaze when he looks at her.

_They’re afraid of me already ._

The breaker has a foot up on the wall, staring out at the Frostbacks. She turns around and he notices a green paste covering her injury. He doesn’t even remember hurting her.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “I shouldn’t have-”

“Don’t apologize,” she says and the rest of the words die in his throat. “You did what you had to. We don’t doubt the actions we take, the choices we make. That is what I offer you, Inquisitor - a choice to become a reaver. You fight like one when angered but you are too wild, directionless. Anyone can turn that against you. Become a reaver and take control, become something more.”

_There’s a catch. There has to be._ “But there’s more to this. You don’t just become a reaver, right? What else is there?”

“You’re quicker than I thought,” Thram says.“It’s true. I don’t just teach you and declare that you are one of us. There is a ritual all reavers undergo. It makes us more than just powerful warriors. It is what gives us our strength, our power, our rage.”

“All reavers?” 

“It is the only way. You are not exempt just because you are the Inquisitor.”

“Then what is the ritual?” Maxwell asks warily.

“You slay a dragon,” Thram says, “and you drink her blood.”

* * *

“That sounds like a _terrible_ idea.”

Maxwell sighs. “I know.”

“You’re not actually considering it, are you?”

He shrugs and grimaces when that aggravates the gash on his arm. Dorian notices and reaches over to examine the gauze wrapped tightly around it, stilling him. “Didn’t you see a healer about this? Or did you try to patch it up yourself?”

“It’s nothing serious,” he replies. “It’ll get better, unless….”

Dorian’s mouth thins. He doesn’t let go of Maxwell’s arm. “Afraid I haven’t mastered even a simple healing spell yet. But if this is going to be your future, I’d better brush up on both theory and practice.”

“Edmund was one,” Maxwell says before he can stop himself. “Evie called him a spirit healer. Is that what you’re going to learn?”

“Me, a spirit healer?” Dorian huffs. “Try not to expect anything grander than something to hold your guts in until we return to camp. The spirits I commune with are of a… different nature, let’s just say.”

“If you say so,” Maxwell says. “But if it’s going to be difficult, then don’t waste your time on it. I survived worse without a healer on hand.”

“Yes, like an _avalanche_ ,” Dorian says, voice going dangerously flat. “Which, I’ll remind you, you set off under extreme duress. I hope you’re not planning on a repeat performance.” He follows Maxwell to the practice ring but doesn’t take position; instead he paces around it, Tyrdda’s staff glowing brightly in his hands. “This breaker and Bull are right about you. You-”

“Did you just agree with Bull?”

Dorian scowls. “I have the sense to acknowledge people when they’re right, no matter how much I disagree with them on everything else. You fight with all the grace of an angered druffalo. Didn’t your parents hire professionals to teach you anything useful?”

“I’ll remember to pass your compliments to Captain Carrine then,” Maxwell says. “I’m sure she’ll enjoy the challenge of dueling a Tevinter altus.”

“One with proper training, thank you very much. Anyway, not the point. How will this Thram help you prepare for whatever Corypheus plans to do next?”

_“Best way to scare those bastards is to laugh and hit back twice as hard, make them regret living long enough to meet you.”_ “Reavers turn pain into a weapon. Like how attacking a druffalo only angers it instead of scaring it away. Except unlike a druffalo, I have to drink dragon blood to make something of it.”

Dorian gestures, wrapping a barrier around them. “Again, terrible idea.”

“You’d rather I learn the ways of a templar?” Maxwell asks. He draws out his greatsword and shifts his weight onto the balls of his feet. He watches Dorian’s hands twitch while they throw out glyphs that meld into the hard ground. “Learn how to dispel your connection to the Fade and become dependent on lyrium?”

“Also a terrible idea, don’t do it,” Dorian says and throws fire at his feet.

They don’t talk again for almost fifteen minutes. In those fifteen, a small group of familiar mages gather outside the practice ring and soldiers lean on the battlements to watch. Dorian comes out the undisputed victor this time, overwhelming Maxwell with a dizzying barrage of bright spells before tripping him with the staff. Maxwell stumbles into the fence and hangs onto it, heaving for air. Magic sizzles all around him, prickling his hot slick skin and the back of his parched throat. Dorian gestures to the residual magic and the stray strands coalesce into a small bright wisp.

“You’ve had a long day,” he says casually, leaning his staff on the fence next to Maxwell. “We don’t have to push it tonight.”

Maxwell laughs hoarsely while pressing careful fingers on his bandaged arm. His body wasn’t sore when he fell out of bed and crawled to his sash and sword, but he’s feeling it now, a deep painful ache that saps his strength bit by bit. His fight with Thram had left him with a lot more than a painful gash and a mottled shoulder.

“... just purge the area, not gather up all that leftover energy,” someone says. She’s the ringleader of the group that periodically wanders around Skyhold late at night. “How come I never thought of that?”

“Chantry didn’t put you in the Circles to learn how to fend for yourself or fight,” someone else responds. Maxwell perks up; the accent is Ostwickian. “Come on. The Inquisitor is busy.”

“You’re no fun, Rion,” someone complains. “Just ‘cause you’re the one who gets to go out on missions while we’re stuck here learning….”

The soldiers are gone, too, and Maxwell hears their faint footsteps on the ramparts. Once the courtyard is empty, he leans in and kisses Dorian. When he pulls back, he tastes salt and an electric tang on his lips.

Dorian grins and then gestures to the armory well. “After you.”

Once they take their turns with the well’s frigid water, Maxwell sits on the mossy stone encircling the well and watches Dorian pace in front of him. The mage hems and haws over his words before saying, “Drinking dragon blood will only invite trouble.”

“I’m already in trouble,” Maxwell says. “But I’m not sure that’s even necessary. Bull said he isn’t a true reaver. He just learned something similar. No dragon-slaying or blood drinking involved.”

“I’ll do some research then. There must be books, pamphlets, manuals, testimonies on the discipline.” Dorian strokes his chin. “Does it have to be a high dragon? Wyverns are part of the same family and far less dangerous-”

Maxwell shakes his head and drags back his wet black hair. “She doesn’t want me to have an easy time of it. Either I slay a high dragon or I don’t learn anything from her. I am the Inquisitor, after all.” He smiles tightly. “Have to show the people what I can do.”

The problem, he wishes he could say, is that Thram’s approaching his situation the wrong way. She and the Iron Bull don’t know how he almost lost it in Crestwood, surrounded by red lyrium and faced with living horrors warped by it. He wasn’t outraged that they were there; he was terrified of the song that sang in the templars’ every steps, in the spires sprouting in the soggy hills. 

And terror is its own form of rage.

“Thing is,” he says, folding his arms tightly, mindful of the bandage. “I might do it because I’m afraid.”

“Afraid? That’s… not a word I’d associate with these reaver types.”

He laughs. “I know, but they don’t. They think I’m like this because I get mad when I get beat but that’s not it. When I hear… I hear it sing and… I can’t… I don’t know how-”

Dorian reaches out to cup the side of his face, thumb stroking his stubbled jaw. Dorian’s hand is so warm and Maxwell leans into the touch, anchors himself to it. “It’s been months but whenever the templars appear, whenever I see red lyrium growing out of the ground, I can hear it. I hear it and it terrifies me. How am I supposed to lead the Inquisition when I can’t think straight around it?”

“I know what you mean,” Dorian says and his eyes have a faraway look. “Lyrium, raw, refined, red, affects anyone who spends too much time around it, and we were in that castle for hours looking for a way out. To be locked up in there for months like Enchanter Fiona was… I don’t know how she kept her mind. If I was there for that long, I’d have lost it.”

“You hear it, too?”

“What mage doesn’t? But you’re not a mage.” Dorian glances at his left hand and the glimmer of the anchor piercing through the leather glove. “I wonder if that anchor makes you more… sensitive to lyrium.”

“What does that mean?”

“Don’t know. I’ll have to find out,” Dorian says decisively. He kisses Maxwell and steps back. “In the meantime, I’d suggest finding as much information as you can before agreeing to hunt down a _high dragon_ just so that you can lap up her blood like a barbarian. Is that how they do it? Or do they drip it into dainty little glasses to drink like very bloody wine….”

* * *

_Something isn’t right._

_Maxwell turns around, boots crunching in freshly fallen snow. Haven bustles with activity but it’s not what’s typical of a tiny mountainside village. Mages and templars keep to themselves and as far away from each other as possible; whenever members of the delegations cross paths, they snarl at each other, daring the other to strike first. Squarely in the middle of the village are members of the Chantry and nobles lending their weight to the upcoming talks. One among them stands tall and not just because of her formal embroidered red and white robes._

_He watches Divine Justinia confer with several grand clerics and then notices someone moving against the crowd near the village chantry. He shouldn’t notice it at all considering how many people crammed themselves within the flimsy walls but this person moves like a fish swimming upstream and nobody flinches, steps out of their way, or snaps at them. Curious, Maxwell follows the stranger, darting around the sisters, mages, and templars until he catches up to the quick-striding person._

_“Solas?”_

_The apostate stops walking._

_“Solas?” he says again. “What are you doing here?”_

_Solas’s ears twitch. “Inquisitor?”_

_“Yes. Why are you here?”_

_Solas turns around. A furrow’s dug deep between his brow as he stares at Maxwell. “You shouldn’t be like this.”_

_“What does that mean?”_

_He gestures around the village. “Do you know where this is? And when?”_

_Maxwell looks around again. His eyes keep wandering back to the Divine, out in the elements rather than sheltering inside the chantry. “Haven, before the Conclave.”_

_“What else?”_

_Someone is walking by, a young man with black hair and the steady bearing of a nobleman’s son. Maxwell watches himself go to a cabin assigned to Ostwick’s delegates and looks at the left hand. No anchor._

_“It’s the day before the Conclave,” he says quietly. Then, “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”_

_Solas contemplates his answer. “After a fashion.”_

_He can almost understand Solas appearing unexpectedly in this dreamscape given everything the apostate told him but his response makes no sense. “You don’t seem pleased about it.”_

_Solas contemplates some more and then holds his hand out in front of a passing templar. The woman walks through his arm on her way to the chantry. “Mages are fully aware, conscious of their presence in the Fade. Those without magic only remember echoes of their time here. They have no power here, no will to shape the Fade. And you are not a mage.”_

_“I know that.” He holds his hand out as well to watch someone walk through it. The anchor crackles and the Qunari mercenary’s shape shivers, vanishes into nothingness. He pulls his hand back. “What just happened?”_

_“Your anchor interferes with the spirits reliving this moment,” Solas replies. “I would let them be.”_

_“Why?”_

_“I am observing the last days before the Breach opened, to see if there’s anything I missed. So far, I see nothing unusual or remarkable. No clue as to how Corypheus came to this place unnoticed.”_

_He remembers asking Solas about dreaming in old ruins. “We’re not in Haven. How can you dream about it in detail all the way in Skyhold?”_

_Solas smiles wryly. “I spent many years perfecting my talents and we are not so far from Haven that I cannot catch a glimpse, a window into the days before. But you… you shouldn’t be here.”_

_“Why not?”_

_Instead of answering, Solas watches something in the distance with narrowed eyes. It’s Maxwell, or the echo of him, standing in front of the cabin talking with someone who’s not quite as tall but bears a striking resemblance. The man is wearing faded Circle robes that once hinted at a position of privilege. A staff is in his hands._

_“Edmund,” Maxwell says faintly. “My brother.”_

_“A mage?”_

_“He went south after the Ostwick Circle fell. He’s here as one of the mage delegates. I remember this. He was asking where Mother Edith went.”_

_Sure enough, his younger self points in a direction and the echo of Edmund walks away with a small wave. The mage vanishes into the haze surrounding this dream Haven._

_“He died at the Conclave,” Maxwell says._

_“My sympathies,” Solas says. The apostate steps into Maxwell’s line of sight as the haze spreads, rolling into the village and shrouding everything like early morning fog. “There is nothing more this memory can give. When you have time, come see me. I need to examine the anchor again.”_

_“Why? Sol_ as?” He sits up abruptly, looking around for the elf, and falls off the couch.

A raven hops down from the balcony rail to the open door, cawing, and someone knocks on the door down below. Maxwell picks himself up with a curse, looks out at the afternoon sun, and rubs his blurry eyes while going downstairs to answer.

“From Leliana?” he asks before the agent can open his mouth.

“Uh. Yes, Your Worship. You’re needed in the war room.”

* * *

“Inquisitor,” Josephine greets when he enters her office. She is still at her desk, gathering papers to attach to her small writing board. “Fiona and Cullen are already inside, and Leliana is on her way.”

“Is it safe to leave them there alone?” he asks, glancing at the heavy wooden door leading to the drafty war room. He hasn’t heard raised voices or explosions yet but that can change in the blink of an eye.

“They’re far better behaved than several months ago,” she says, “but we should be there just in case someone coughs wrong.”

The way to the war room is through Josephine’s office and down a crumbling corridor. The wall between Skyhold and the elements had collapsed ages ago, giving him an unobstructed breathtaking view of the Frostback Mountains.

Josephine notices him looking and says, “It’s quite a view, isn’t it?”

“It is. Why hasn’t Gatsi fixed this?”

“I asked twice. He claimed it would be more dangerous to attempt it.”

“But anyone can climb into Skyhold through this.”

“Yes, I also told him that twice. He said the only way anyone can sneak into Skyhold is by climbing the mountainside or flying in. This is also the part of Skyhold no visitor will ever see from the roads… but I’ll ask Cullen or Captain Katarin to post someone here. Just in case.”

Maxwell pulls open the heavy wooden door for her and follows the diplomat into the large room. Fiona and Cullen are at the massive old table in the center, talking quietly and tersely while moving markers on the map of southern Thedas. They look up when Maxwell and Josephine arrive.

“Inquisitor,” they say, stepping back from the table.

He glances between them warily. “Is there a problem?” he asks while Josephine takes her place next to the former knight-captain.

“It’s only a small matter,” Fiona replies. “Let me ask you this - if a chantry abbess asks the Inquisition to protect her chantry’s archives and move them somewhere safe, would you agree to it?”

Cullen groans. “Maker. We have the manpower and she is offering to donate whatever we need. These archives aren’t just libraries. They hold books and artifacts that the Chantry thought were extremely valuable or dangerous, or both.”

“We don’t run errands for the Chantry,” Josephine says. “That’s not what the Inquisition is for.”

“My point exactly.” Fiona withdraws a letter from her sleeve. “One of my people informed me that there are still remote cells in the Hinterlands. I believe the commander can make better use of his manpower by finding and bringing them to Skyhold.”

Maxwell ponders the news and then looks at Cullen. “Do we know what’s in the archives?”

“I don’t believe the abbess knows exactly what we’re looking for,” Cullen replies with a sigh. “Inquisitor-”

“Or,” Leliana says, closing the door behind her. “I can send my agents there to search the archives and move the most valuable items to a safehouse. That should free up soldiers to rescue those missing mages and make Arl Teagan a more agreeable man.”

“Yes, I imagine the arl isn’t very happy about it,” Fiona says in a more subdued tone. “Your soldiers can accompany my mages, Commander.”

“All right, fine,” Cullen says. “I’ll arrange for it once we’re done here.”

“I’m glad you’re all in agreement,” Maxwell says. “You said you needed me, Leliana?”

She steps forward, a small folded missive between her gloved fingers. “There’s been a development regarding what happened at Therinfal. My agents finally picked up the trail of whatever demon inhabited the fortress. The Chargers volunteered to hunt it down, and Barris and several templars are going with them.”

He nods. “What else?”

“While you were in Crestwood, someone in the Dales named Fairbanks contacted us offering information. I sent Harding to meet him in the Emerald Graves. I just got word from her today. Apparently, he won’t give us his information until we agree to his terms.”

“He thinks he has leverage?” Cullen asks. “Who does he think he is?”

“What are they?” Maxwell asks curiously.

“That we help him eliminate a group of men and women calling themselves the ‘Freemen of the Dales’. If you didn’t guess already, these ‘Freemen’ operate all over the Dales. They’ve been causing trouble for Celene and Gaspard’s armies who are currently under a ceasefire and can’t retaliate. Removing these Freemen can put us in a favorable position with both armies.”

“Is that all?” Josephine asks.

“No. Fairbanks will only speak to you, Inquisitor, and he refuses to leave the Graves.”

“Only me?”

“I don’t like this,” Cullen says. “He could be baiting us. Harding’s one of your most trusted agents and if he won’t tell her anything, why should we let the Inquisitor go meet him?”

“Perhaps he doesn’t trust his information to fall into the right hands,” Fiona replies. “He needs to be sure it’s heard the way he wants it to.”

“Harding wouldn’t trick him or us.”

“How would Fairbanks know?”

“He’s the de facto leader of a group of refugees hiding in the Graves,” Leliana says. “They were driven there by the war and have been left to fend for themselves. Harding believes the real reason why he’s asking for our help is because nobody else will come to their aid. Refusing to give up his information until we commit our forces there may be the only way to get it.”

“So he could be lying,” Josephine says. “Why not just ask us for assistance? It’s not like we’ll refuse it.”

“Harding wrote that there were suspicious movements in the Graves. She needs more time to investigate but believes the Inquisition should establish itself there anyway.” Leliana looks at Maxwell. “How do you wish to proceed?”

Maxwell looks at the map and searches for the Dales in the Orlesian half of southern Thedas. His gaze then slides left to the Approach. “And there’s nothing from Stroud?”

“Not for a while,” she replies, confirming his suspicions.

He doesn’t like the idea of wandering away from Skyhold while Stroud is investigating the Wardens’ movements in the west. There’s also the possibility that Cullen is right and this Fairbanks is trying to lure him out to the Dales to separate him or waste his time. Harding has rarely been wrong, however; if she thinks the Emerald Graves and these refugees can benefit from the Inquisition’s presence, he can’t think of a reason not to send soldiers there. But Fairbanks only had to ask to have them; why did he specifically request the Inquisitor? 

What sort of information is he withholding? What does he know that he thinks will help the Inquisition? Maxwell knows that Celene’s assassination and Gaspard’s suspicious fate factor into Corypheus’s plans to destabilize the most powerful kingdom in Thedas, so perhaps Fairbanks knows something about them. Perhaps he’ll shed light on the purported demon army that razed Orlais and spread to all corners of the known world in the other future. 

His eyes fall on Val Royeaux’s name on the map and imagines the demons sweeping through the gilded streets, blackening it like Corypheus corrupting the Golden City. Several months from now, they will have stormed through Ferelden while the Breach devoured the sky.

If Fairbanks can help him stop it from ever happening, then he’ll meet the man.

“We’re going to the Emerald Graves.”


	8. silence 3: in a forest verdant with sorrows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extensive headcanoning abound, building up on what was established in previous chapters (hopefully). I thought up this chapter's major scene two years ago and picked it apart nonstop to make sure it played by the rules of the established lore.

His head hurts.

Something pounds on it. In it. It stomps his head into the ground. He can’t concentrate. Can’t think about the soft turf under his head, the rustling leaves and the trilling birds in the trees. Can’t pry his eyes open.

“He’s waking.”

A soft voice. Wavering. Reedy. _Cole_.

Awareness swells, spreads through him and sinks deep. His body aches. His side throbs with each shallow breath. His hands twitch, fingers curling against grass and damp dirt. His left hand burns.

“We’re late. If we don’t move now, Duhaime will disappear.”

Cassandra’s voice paces around him, tight and urgent. Anxious. He tries to open his eyes but his eyelids feel so heavy. He cracks his mouth open and tries to speak.

“What….” His throat is so dry.

“Maxwell?” Someone is kneeling in the grass next to him. A hand brushes over his forehead, pushing sticky strands of hair away. 

Somewhere near his left shoulder, Cassandra echoes Dorian in a baffled murmur.

“Too quiet,” Cole says. “They’ve been so quiet. They saw too much death.”

“Not... dead yet.” Even speaking is a struggle but he finally forces his eyes open.

Sunlight - the rich orange of deep afternoon - glimmers through the green canopy. Moss-covered trees rise up all around him. Dorian hovers over him, dried blood and dirt clinging to his face and hair. Maxwell tries to smile and grimaces instead when his bottom lip cracks open.

“What happened?” he asks.

Dorian blinks at him. Cassandra leans into view, frowning mightily. Streaks of tacky dark blood mark her face. Her eyes are hollow, bruised and weary. She looks winded.

“Here it is,” Cole says and Maxwell tilts his head up to see the spirit pull on his wide-brimmed hat. He also looks like a mess, coat torn in places, knuckles dark with blood.

“You don’t remember?” Cassandra asks warily.

He tries. His head throbs dully from the effort. “No?”

“What’s the last thing you do remember?”

He wracks his brain for the last memory and sees a flash of light glinting off a faceted surface. A song winds through the stillness of the forest, prickling up his spine.

“Red.”

* * *

The road to the Dales is relatively quiet, a strange thing. The War of the Lions may have ravaged much of eastern Orlais but it hasn’t quite penetrated the thick green forests. What it has done is chase both refugees and deserters into the Emerald Graves while the local nobles flee their isolated châteaus and villas to Val Royeaux.

Maxwell spends most of the weeklong journey reading a history of the Dales. His tutor, Brother Benson, didn’t spend much time on the Exalted March here, possibly because he believed it to be a strictly Orlesian matter. Maxwell prefers having context, especially if he’s venturing into a place called the Emerald Graves, or the Greatwood if you’re Orlesian and don’t want to think about its bloody history. 

“I envy you sometimes,” Dorian remarks a couple days after they leave the Frostbacks. “Any attempt to read while on the back of a willful beast tends to end in an outright disaster.”

Maxwell pries his eyes away from the book and glances at the Bog Unicorn’s bobbing head. The undead horse keeps pace with the party at no urging but Dorian’s mount, a copper Ranger, keeps pinning her ears and hopping to the side.

“They know if they’re carrying a nervous rider,” Maxwell says.

“Which is why I don’t come within ten feet of one.”

“Then how did you get around?”

“There are these things called carriages. They have cushioned seats, a roof, wheels, and someone else to deal with the horses.” Dorian glances elsewhere while adding, “When I left, I was either on foot or hitching rides on wagons. Not at all what I’m accustomed to but you do what you have to - _fasta vass_.”

The mare huffs and veers to the right, bumping Blackwall’s horse. Blackwall grabs the mare’s bridle and mutters tersely to Dorian about his posture and handling. It boils over into an argument that Maxwell tunes out in favor of reading a passage on the Emerald Knights.

Nights at the edge of the Emerald Graves are loud. The forest is full of insects and creatures that rustle and sing in the dark, resulting in a lot of muffled cursing and patrols shrieking whenever a nug darts out of the underbrush. It’s a wonder anyone gets enough uninterrupted sleep, if they manage to sleep at all. 

After the first night, Dorian suggests sharing tents with the others to ward off suspicions about favoritism and other, more complicated implications. Maxwell tries not to think about it. 

“Never thought I’d miss Skyhold,” the Iron Bull remarks one night. “What a racket. Suppose we can’t ask anyone to torch the bugs. Would make for some peace and quiet.” He sits up, a horn pressing against the side of the tent. “Boss?”

Maxwell looks up from his book. “What?”

The Iron Bull stares at him for a long moment. “Just reminding you to get some sleep. Need all your wits when traveling through a forest like this.”

“Why’s that?”

The Qunari gestures at the air. “What people don’t get is the silence. Yeah it’s noisy at night but during the day? The trees, the bushes, they muffle and hide everything. Hills and mountains bounce sounds off each other. And the things that live here? They know how it all works. How to survive. We don’t.”

“I take it you’ve done some jobs in forests like this one.”

The Iron Bull chuckles. “Nothing too deadly but it gets on your nerves. And I bet these Freemen know the Graves better than we do. That’s going to be a problem. We’ll need this Fairbanks’ help just to get out alive.”

He’s right. Reports from Harding have been trickling in, keeping him and Cassandra informed of the Freemen’s activities. Since the Freemen are deserters of the civil war, they make an exceptionally formidable group. Harding already lost two of her men to them and is sitting tight at a camp near Andruil’s Wall, waiting for the reinforcements to arrive.

“I hope Fairbanks’ information is as good as he promised,” Maxwell says. “But if these people need our help, I can’t say no.”

“Yeah, but you could’ve just sent me and the Chargers out with some thirty soldiers to secure the Graves for them. You didn’t have to come here yourself just to make him talk.”

He frowns at the Iron Bull. “Are you saying-”

“No, I weasel out the information. That’s what I do. But for some reason people just start blabbering as soon as they see me. Must be my horns.”

“Yes, that must be it.” Maxwell sighs and shuts the book. “I’m here now. If his information isn’t good and this turns out to be for nothing, then I’ll take the blame.” 

The doubts keep him awake long after the Iron Bull goes to sleep. He made his decision because he trusted Harding’s judgment and because Corypheus has plans for Orlais. If Fairbanks’ information can help him obstruct the darkspawn magister, he’ll meet the man but what if Fairbanks was wrong? Then Maxwell didn’t have to come here. He didn’t have to muster a considerable force to march all the way to the Emerald Graves to drive out these deserters. 

What did Josephine say about that chantry abbess’s request to the Inquisition? _”We don’t run errands for the Chantry.”_ And yet he’s here at an Orlesian’s request, trusting the man to have the right information and for the Freemen to be as serious a threat as he and Harding claim them to be.

Maxwell prods at his temple for a few seconds and then gets up with a huff, pulls on his gloves and slips outside the tent before the doubts suffocate him. No one who’s awake and about at this hour notice him walk in the shadows to the outskirts of camp. He cocks his head to the side, listening to the forest. The cacophony of insects and nocturnal beasts creates a dense wall of noise and he hopes the wards Vivienne placed all around the camp hold through the night.

He notices an unnatural glow in one of the tents while walking back to his and then hears Varric’s slightly muffled voice saying, “So, Sparkler.”

Dorian sighs. “No.”

“Come on. You think I wouldn’t notice? Unlike everybody else in camp, I have eyes.”

“Congratulations on having one more than Bull.”

Varric gasps mockingly. “Serah, have you no shame? To make a mockery of an ally who lost it in a brave bar brawl for someone’s honor… Not in the mood, then. Fine. As I was-”

The wisp floats back and forth, illuminating two silhouettes. “I don’t see why this matters to you.”

“Of course it matters. Publicity matters.”

“You wouldn’t-”

“Not like that. Who do you take me for?” Varric asks. “Half of anything’s won with words. A rumor can ruin houses and start wars, and the Inquisition has a reputation to keep if we’re going to change anything.”

Are they talking about Dorian being a part of the Inquisition? He knows people still question a Tevinter altus’s presence but that’s never bothered Varric before. Why is he bringing it up now?

Dorian huffs, restless, clearly eager to wrap up this conversation and sleep. “Something the Inquisition's esteemed ambassador is handling admirably, last I checked.”

“Hey, I’m on your side. You think I don’t know how this can look? Trevelyan’s already getting a lot of flack-”

Maxwell freezes, heart pounding as he finally realizes what Varric’s after. _Varric, no-_

“-but I can’t - no, I _can_ imagine what they might say if they learned about you two-”

“Varric,” and Dorian is pleading. “Don’t. It’s not what you think.”

He should go. He needs to go back to his tent and sleep listening to the Iron Bull’s snores and the crickets’ infernal chirping. He shouldn’t be listening to this.

“I’ve heard that before. Not buying it.” Then, “How serious is it?”

He needs to-

“It’s not. We’re just having some fun until one of us gets bored or he needs to fulfill some obligation.”

“Right,” Varric says flatly.

“You don’t believe me?”

“I think you’re full of shit. I told you, I have eyes. And ears. Neither of you are acting like this is just a side thing, or does he not know? You’re not leading him on, are you?”

The wisp flickers and flares, and Maxwell shrinks into the shadows.

“What? No!” A few soldiers glance at the tents but they don’t come over to investigate. They don’t see the Inquisitor lingering nearby, listening despite himself. “No, that’s - that’s not it. Believe me, I would never do that to him. But I know what rumors and gossip can do. I’m not jeopardizing the Inquisition over this.”

Silence. The forest seems louder now, deafening, drowning out even the crackling of the nightwatch fires and the soldiers walking the perimeter. He hopes it muffles his racing heart.

“You know this isn’t Tevinter, right?” Varric finally says.

Dorian curses under his breath. “Does it matter? I’m not inviting trouble for him, Varric. Let it be.”

A branch snaps. Maxwell flinches and turns around. A bored soldier freezes mid-stride, eyes widening as they realize who’s standing in front of them half-shrouded in darkness. “Uh-”

He hushes the soldier and whispers, “I wasn’t here. Understand?”

The soldier nods mutely and quickly walks by. Maxwell glances at the tent but it’s dark now, the wisp banished, and takes it as his cue to leave. He returns to his tent and nearly trips over the Iron Bull’s outstretched leg in his haste to hide. The Iron Bull grumbles and mutters something about spiders while rolling over onto his side. Maxwell stares at the Qunari, heart thudding in his chest, and then slowly crawls to his side of the tent. He stares at the glow of firelight through the canvas, wringing his hands, wishing it wasn’t so hard to breathe.

* * *

If anyone notices the Inquisitor acting more subdued during the last leg of their journey to Harding's camp, they say nothing. There are more pressing matters drawing their attention, like the bodies on the side of the road and debris strewn all around them. Refugees, Maxwell thinks while staring at the waxy bodies of two women under a stand of trees. Their belongings lie scattered and broken next to them.

“Honorless bastards,” Blackwall mutters under his breath.

Cassandra calls several soldiers to her side and gives them orders. They start carefully moving the bodies off the road for a funeral pyre. It’s the least they can do.

Harding’s camp is nestled in the shadow of tall gray ruins. Maxwell stares at the foliage crawling all over the worn stone while dismounting. He clicks his tongue and the Bog Unicorn ambles away to join the other mounts, sparing soldiers the dubious honor of handling the undead beast. Harding comes up to him, smiling like always though there’s a new scar on her cheek.

“Inquisitor,” she says. “Welcome to the Emerald Graves. Glad you got here as fast as you did. Fairbanks still hasn’t given anything away but something is definitely going on out there.”

She looks over her shoulder at the Graves, a dense green wall of trees, bushes, and stone with golden sunlight filtering in through the canopy. A few soldiers are stationed on the sloping hill next to the camp and others walk the overgrown road into the forest. Something bursts out of the thicket and bounds away - an august ram. The forest swallows it back up and all is silent again.

“What’s it like out there?” Maxwell asks, remembering his conversation with the Iron Bull.

“Quiet, but not peaceful. The forest absorbs sounds and movement so it’s actually pretty difficult to see what’s fifty paces ahead. Right now, Fairbanks and his people are holed up in a cavern in Watcher’s Canyon. The Freemen are using abandoned villas all around here as hideouts. We’ve been trying to get close to investigate but no luck. I still don’t know what they’re doing besides attacking these people.”

“That’s not good.”

She shakes her head and points north. “Giants were spotted roaming the woods in the north and one of my scouts swears he saw a high dragon-”

“I did!” someone calls out from the far end of camp. “Looked like a Greater Mistral! You can tell by their wedge-shaped heads and coloring. Bright like northern birds. They take flight at dawn and-”

“Oh Maker,” Harding sighs, digging fingers into her temple. “Pierre, the dragon is not our concern right now!”

“Did someone say ‘dragon’?” the Iron Bull asks.

Maxwell raises an eyebrow at the Qunari, who laughs before continuing his conversation with Sera. Others are helping pitch tents or sorting through their belongings and whatever the requisitions officer has on hand. Cole is sitting on the wall, watching the camp and the hills from under his hat’s wide brim.

“How soon are you ready to go?” Harding suddenly asks.

“Why?” Cassandra says, joining the conversation. She’d shed her armor at some point and he thinks of doing the same. “Is Fairbanks that desperate to see us?”

“I’m actually more concerned about the Freemen. We saw a group near Watcher’s Canyon, all armed and dangerous. Last I talked to Fairbanks, he lost two more to them.”

“Are they that much of a threat?” Cassandra asks, alarmed.

“I’ve lost people to them, too. Good people. Remember, these deserters are experienced soldiers. They have no loyalty to anyone but themselves. They don’t care if Fairbanks’ people are simple farmers or we’re the Inquisition’s vanguard.”

“Why do they want these people dead if they’re just farmers?” Maxwell asks.

“Fairbanks might know why but he won’t say. Apparently it has something to do with the reason you’re here,” Harding says. “If you go see him now, I’ll have a better idea of what we’re up against.”

Maxwell looks out at the forest again. It’s still a picturesque view but the stillness no longer sits right with him. The air is thick with quiet tension, like string pulled too tightly but unable to snap. The Graves is hiding something from prying eyes like his, but what? He shouldn’t dally, then, no matter how sore and tired he is from days in the saddle.

“Give me ten minutes,” he decides. Then, because it’s probably a good idea to not meet this mysterious Orlesian without a firm grasp of the situation, “What can you tell me about Fairbanks?”

Harding thinks for a moment. “He’s pretty serious and straightforward. He doesn’t like wasting words or time. He grew up around here so he knows the land and the people, but there’s something about him. Can’t put my finger on it.”

He nods. “Anything else I should know?”

“Oh, just that I might need a lot of help securing this base. Two nights ago, a giant bear wandered in, looking for our rations. It… wasn’t fun. And yesterday, I almost lost Rector to the Freemen. The forest doesn’t make it easy. The underbrush is too dense, and the shadows and sunlight make it hard to spot people sneaking up on you.”

“Then we’ll have to split up,” Cassandra says. “You and I will head out there to set up barricades and wards. Trevelyan can go meet with Fairbanks.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Maxwell says and leaves to inform the others.

One of Harding’s scouts hands him a small map before he leaves. It shows the local trails weaving through the Graves and labels notable locations, specifically Watcher’s Canyon, the Reach where Fairbanks and the other refugees are hiding, and several villas nestled in the woods. 

“Watch out for the bears,” the scout warns him. “And the Freemen. Those bastards won’t hesitate to attack, no matter who you are. Worship.”

The scout is right. Thirty minutes after leaving camp, a Freemen patrol strikes. An arrow hits the ground next to Maxwell’s foot and he jumps back. Blackwall shoves him out of the way and raises his shield. More arrows thud against it and Vivienne wraps a barrier around them.

“Where are they?” Sera grouses, spinning around on the balls of her feet, notched arrow seeking a target hiding in the shifting shadows and light. “Ha! Eat it!”

A bowman falls out of the dense undergrowth and others burst onto the dirt road, brandishing swords. One of them trips and falls from Sera’s arrows and Vivienne freezes her on the spot. Maxwell turns and slashes at a Freemen leaping out of the bushes, knocking him away from Blackwall’s exposed back. The Warden grunts his thanks and then smashes his shield at a Freeman’s face. The man’s head jerks back with a sickening crack and Blackwall tosses him into the path of another Freeman. Maxwell slides in from the side and shoulders the deserter, throwing her off-stride and into Blackwall’s longsword. He deflects a Freeman’s wild swing and disarms the man, then crushes his ribs with a brutal downward slash.

“That was close,” Blackwall mutters, wiping his sword clean on a mossy tree trunk. “Didn’t even hear a footstep. Need to keep our wits about in these parts. Never know what’s hiding in the bushes.”

Sera sniggers and Vivienne sighs.

* * *

Fairbanks is, as Harding described, a fairly serious man. Nothing can hide the dark circles under his eyes, the lines in his face from stress and wear, but he is unbowed by his situation. He comes up to Maxwell with quick steady strides and greets him curtly before pitching his story. He talks about the side of the civil war that nobody ever sees - the plight of the common folk driven from their homes and livelihoods by violence and death, the plight of the despairing soldiers who deserted and turned to a life of crime to sustain themselves and to spite their former commanders. Sera nods vigorously in time with Fairbanks’ words, muttering darkly under her breath about alerting her friends to the turmoil in the Dales.

“No one in Val Royeaux is going to listen to someone like me,” Fairbanks says. “It’s why I sent word to the Inquisition. I would apologize for not explaining myself better but I could not risk us being discovered.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Maxwell says because how can he not? “But I don’t understand. Why do these Freemen want you dead?”

Fairbanks glances at the mouth of Watcher’s Reach; some of the refugees are watching, pointing and whispering at the members of the Inquisition. Others tend to their meager stores and salvaged belongings, to their wounded and their frightened young.

“They aren’t just making our lives miserable in order to drive us out,” Fairbanks says quietly. “Lately, they’ve been escorting supply wagons along these roads and killing anyone who gets in their way. Three weeks ago, I survived such an encounter. This fell out from someone’s pocket.”

He takes out a small bundle of oilskin from his pocket. As he unfolds it, something prickles in the air. A soft chime fills Maxwell’s ears and crawls inside.

“Red lyrium,” he says, staring at the small red shard in Fairbanks’ hand. “They’re moving red lyrium through the Graves.”

“I don’t know who they’re working for.” Fairbanks closes his hand over the shard when someone walks by. “None of my people have been able to get close without disappearing or turning up dead. We lost too many to those bastards and I can’t risk them going out anymore.”

“How did you know that this is an Inquisition matter?” Maxwell asks. 

“I was listening in on the Freemen assigned to a wagon and they mentioned you by name. That’s when I knew to contact you. They discovered me before I could learn where the shipment was going and who they were working for. I’m afraid you’ll have to find that out yourself.”

“You’ve done more than enough,” Maxwell says. He shifts uneasily while the song shivers down his spine and creeps under his skin, can’t take his eyes off the reddish aura seeping through Fairbank’s fingers. “You need to get rid of that. It’s… Vivienne?”

“If you’ll put it down and step away,” she says. Fairbanks quirks an eyebrow at her. “You really don’t want to keep that thing near you. It’s lyrium.”

He immediately drops it and backs away, giving her the space to safely ignite it. The shard cracks and pops, and then shatters. She doesn’t douse the flames until the lyrium has burned out completely. 

Fairbanks looks up from the smoldering remains at Vivienne and then at Maxwell. “Then I’m glad I called for you, Inquisitor. I have notes on the Freemen leaders in the area. If you can get rid of them and stop these shipments, we’ll be in your debt.”

“Eyes and ears nobody thinks two bits about,” Sera says. “I want in.”

Blackwall looks around. “Should get some soldiers here, station them at the top of the hill on both ends.”

“I have people there. Soldiers, discharged from the war and returning to find their homes burned and families driven off into the Graves,” Fairbanks says while pulling crumpled notes out of a pouch on his belt. “You just don’t see them. Inquisitor, I hope you have better luck with them than I did. Excuse me.”

He hands Maxwell the notes and walks away to talk with two of the refugees wearing salvaged armor and swords. Maxwell sifts through the neatly-written notes, admiring the surprisingly delicate penmanship while taking stock of Fairbanks’ careful observations on Freemen sightings, refugee losses, and a Sister Costeau.

Vivienne tsks while peering over his shoulder. “A fallen Sister. I wonder how she sleeps at night knowing what she’s doing to these people. And for what?”

“Guess we’ll have to find out,” Maxwell says. “Blackwall, the map?”

According to Fairbanks’ notes, Sister Costeau is based in an abandoned veridium mine near Nettle Pass. Late afternoon is setting in but Fairbanks says the mine is not far and the refugees will all sleep easier tonight if they know Sister Costeau no longer poses a threat. Weary as he is, Maxwell can’t find reason to refuse. Fairbanks then suggests he take a few of the refugees with him to find the sister.

“They know these woods better than yours do, Inquisitor,” Fairbanks points out. “Yes, I know about your scouts. So do the Freemen. If you want to move undetected, you’ll need our help.”

He remembers the Iron Bull’s warning about forests and his own run-in with the Freemen, and acquiesces. “All right. But tell them to stay behind me. They’ve done more than enough.”

They encounter a small patrol on the way to the mine. The refugees guiding them stop short and gesture at something up ahead. Maxwell has to look carefully through the dense old growth to see the glint of sunlight on dull armor but once he sees it, he also sees the rest of the Freemen loitering behind the thickets along an overgrown path. He looks over his shoulder at Vivienne, who immediately thrusts her staff out and summons flames from under the deserters’ feet. They shout and stumble out into the open only to run into Maxwell and Blackwall’s swords. Sera takes down the Freemen who try to make a run for it.

Maxwell sheathes his sword and turns to the refugees who had stayed out of sight. They’re gawking at him, wide-eyed, mouths agape.

“Your Worship,” one mumbles when he approaches and the other bows her head.

“We should move,” he says, shifting uncomfortably. “Remember to stay back.”

The veridium mine is at the end of Nettle Pass, protected by barricades and Freemen. Disciplined soldiers, they fight to the last, refusing to give ground until they are no longer able. Maxwell almost feels sorry for cutting them down and wonders what drove them out of the army in the first place. Then he remembers that they’re attacking defenseless common folk and helping ship red lyrium through the woods and guts the nearest one with renewed fury. He comes away with a stained and dinged sword, and smears red off his face while moving down the slope into the abandoned mine.

Sister Costeau is as much a warrior as a woman of the cloth, hiding behind an ornate plumed helm and shield. She glares at him through the eyeholes of her mask, raises her heavy mace skyward, and orders the other Freemen in the dank cave to attack.

Later, while Sera grumbles under her breath as she picks the lock to a crude storage cell, Maxwell asks one of the refugees inside it about the deserters.

“They did not talk in front of us,” Gertrude says. She can’t stop watching Blackwall dragging the bodies away to burn while Vivienne searches the mine for information and red lyrium caches. “But I heard some things. Sister Costeau wasn’t happy with whatever her leader was doing.”

Fairbanks’ notes call him Maliphant and say he’s always on the move. “Did they say where he is?”

“A villa, maybe? All the nobles abandoned theirs when the war reached the Exalted Plains. We’ve been… scavenging from them but then the Freemen moved in….”

“What about templars?” Maxwell asks. Wherever there’s red lyrium, there are Corypheus’s templars. “Have you seen any around here?”

Gertrude hesitates. “I saw two. They asked to keep us alive. They also kept talking about Suledin.”

“Who’s Suledin? He in charge of all of them?” Sera nods to the dead Freemen, then huffs and jangles the lock. “Not jimmying.”

“There’s a key,” Gertrude offers. “I saw Sister Costeau put it on the crates near the entrance.”

Sera glowers at the lock and tosses a broken pick over her shoulder. “You could’ve said!”

Vivienne hands Maxwell several small sheets of paper while they leave the mine with the freed refugees. “I’m not surprised there’s dissension within the ranks of a misguided group of fools, but the so-called sister had some choice words to say about one of her cohorts. Did Fairbanks have anything on this ‘Duhaime’?”

They pour over the Orlesian’s collected notes on the Freemen’s leaders. The descriptions Fairbanks gathered on Duhaime paint an unpleasant picture of a brutal man who showed no mercy to the refugees he discovered hunting in the woods. However, Fairbanks didn’t write where this man is located so Maxwell folds up the papers and tucks them away. 

“We should go back,” Blackwall says. “Evening’s setting in and I’d rather not be out here once it’s dark.”

The Emerald Graves is louder the more it dims. The insects and night creatures have emerged to sing and hunt, and Sera keeps twitching, keeps whirling around with an arrow half-notched. The refugees pay no mind as they show the way back to Watcher’s Reach, not even when an august ram burst out of the underbrush in front of them. It takes fifty paces for Maxwell’s heart to slow and for him to let go of his dagger. All the while the Graves darkens rapidly and Vivienne summons veilfire to light the way. The refugees shy away from its eerie glow and more than one person glances nervously at Maxwell’s left hand. He clenches it and hides it behind his back.

Fairbanks is waiting for them just outside the cave at Watcher’s Reach. His tense face breaks out into a relieved smile upon seeing Gertrude and the others Sister Costeau had taken captive. Others emerge from their shelter to see and exclaim their shock, then gratitude for the Inquisition’s timely arrival.

“So,” Fairbanks says once they’re alone, “they weren’t dead but held captive. While I’m relieved I wonder what the Freemen were planning for them.”

“Gertrude overheard them talking about Suledin,” Maxwell says. “I think they’re sending your people there.”

“They’re not ‘my’ people,” he replies immediately. His brow furrows. “But why?”

“Perhaps this Duhaime the fallen sister named in her letter will be able to explain it,” Vivienne says. 

“I know that name,” Fairbanks says coldly. “He’s one of the reasons why I don’t let anyone leave Watcher’s Reach by themselves.”

“Do you know where he is?” Maxwell asks. When Fairbanks shakes his head, he says, “Then we’ll have to find him. What about the others on your list?”

“Auguste was last seen at Argon’s Lodge northwest of here but I don’t dare go that far. Maliphant and Duhaime are always on the move. The Freemen know these woods as well as I and the Graves is vast. It will take days, Inquisitor.”

“We have the time,” Blackwall says. “Anything to keep these people safe.”

Fairbanks looks up at the evening sky and then at the lit narrow paths out of Watcher’s Reach. “If you’re going back to camp, Inquisitor, it’ll have to be now. Once the moons rise, the woods will be treacherous if you’re unfamiliar with it.”

“Then let’s go, right now,” Sera declares. “I’m not staying out here with bears out _there_.”

“We’ll start searching for the other leaders tomorrow morning,” Maxwell says. “Be safe, Fairbanks.”

“Maker watch your back, Inquisitor,” Fairbanks says and turns away to talk to a few refugees about increasing patrols around Watcher’s Canyon.

Two of Harding’s agents are waiting for them at the south end of Watcher’s Canyon. They salute Maxwell and one says, “The way back to camp is clear, Your Worship.”

“Still, better keep an ear out for bears. Pierre swore he saw one about an hour ago,” the other adds helpfully, or unhelpfully judging by how much Sera curses under her breath.

On the way back, Blackwall casually says, “You know, there’s something about that Fairbanks. Can’t put my finger on it.”

“What do you mean?” Maxwell asks. He thought Fairbanks admirable for organizing and protecting these refugees, but that was about it. Blackwall isn’t the first to say this about the resourceful man, however. Was there something about Fairbanks that he missed? Something in the way he spoke or acted? 

“Don’t know. Maybe I’m just imagining things.”

“At least we didn’t travel all the way out to the Greatwood for nothing,” Vivienne says. “I hate to think of what else Corypheus is getting away with if he could hide these red lyrium shipments from Leliana’s people.”

“I told you, didn’t I?” Sera says. “It’s why you listen to the little people. Stuffy shites talking around them like they’re tables but - _what was that_?”

Everyone freezes and Vivienne summons veilfire to her hands. Sera muffles a shriek at the green flames and then at the pair of beady eyes staring at them in the dark. An august ram then emerges from the shadows, snorts, and bolts back into the forest.

Nobody mentions how quickly they walk back to camp, not even Vivienne.

* * *

Finding where the leaders of the Freemen of the Dales are hiding in the Emerald Graves is a frustratingly time-consuming task. Harding’s agents follow Fairbanks’ map and learn quickly how to navigate the dense green woods, but they’re no match for the Freemen and all sorts of native wildlife.

On the second day, Cassandra’s party returns with a lot of muttering and palpable tension. Maxwell looks up from his seat on mossy stone, sharpening his dagger with Blackwall’s whetstone, and does a double take at the sight of angry red splotches all over the Seeker’s face and neck. The others quickly separate, Varric stomping off to the tents with his clothes and hair in complete disarray and Dorian sitting down heavily on the stone steps, dragging dirty fingers through his mussed hair. Pierre, the scout who went with them and several soldiers, darts away to the requisitions officer.

“What happened?” Harding asks before Maxwell can.

“Rashvine,” Cassandra replies. She keeps touching her face. “Another thing I dislike about this forest.”

“We should have something for that,” Harding says, looking at the requisitions officer and Pierre going through the crates. 

Maxwell sheaths the dagger and slides down the stone. He crosses the camp to Cassandra and Harding. “Are you all right, Cassandra?”

“It could’ve been worse,” she says. “Unfortunately, it was the most exciting thing to happen today. Checked the villas on this side-” She gestures in an easterly direction. “-but they were abandoned. Hadn’t been used in weeks.”

“They have to come from somewhere,” Maxwell says. 

“I’m telling you,” Harding says. “Let’s use Fairbanks’ people. They know the woods better than anyone here-”

“And I said no. No civilians, not when red lyrium is involved.” Cassandra surveys the camp. “Are the others back yet?”

“No, but they should be here soon,” Harding says, glancing upwards to gauge the sun’s position. “The Inquisitor and I didn’t have much luck either. I’d suggest setting up a forward camp to speed up the search but the ground isn’t good.” She looks around Maxwell and gestures to someone to approach. “Found it.”

The requisitions officer hands over a stoneware jar. Cassandra takes it and lifts the lid gingerly. Her nose crinkles at the stench and she covers it. “I’m glad you’re always prepared for everything.”

“That’s my middle name,” Harding says cheerfully. Someone whistles and she looks over her shoulder at the Iron Bull’s hulking silhouette on the dirt path back to Andruil’s Wall. “There they are. And - Maker, did they kill a bear?”

After a soldier with the Iron Bull and Vivienne’s party reports finding old wagon tracks and corpses - “Might have been Fairbanks’ missing people,” she says. “Red lyrium was starting to grow on their bones so Madame Vivienne took care of it.” - Maxwell sits next to a low-burning fire, turning over Blackwall’s whetstone in his hands and staring out at the Emerald Graves. He tries to imagine lyrium bursting out of the rich damp dirt just like the spires that riddled the hills in Crestwood. Did they grow from deep under the earth, beckoned forth by the Breach and rifts, or did Corypheus’s templars plant them with dropped splinters while moving cargo through the woods? 

He starts when Dorian sits down next to him. The mage had cleaned up at some point and his hair is still damp.

“It paints such a pretty picture… until you’re actually walking through it and being accosted by all sorts of deadly flora,” Dorian remarks, eyes flicking to Cassandra dabbing on the ointment. “The fauna is not much better.”

Maxwell looks at the soldier scraping the bearskin clean; she looks utterly disgusted with her task. The Iron Bull looks about as poorly as the bear must’ve been, though he is happily recounting his battle to others and pointing at the scabbing wounds on his body.

“I would think Bull more dangerous to the bears than they are to him,” Maxwell says. 

He only twitches when Cole says, “She was so angry,” from on top of the giant stone where he’d been sitting. “Strange little creatures and their strange little song that pricks.”

“ _Kaffas_ , Cole. Warn us next time, or wear a bell on your hat.” Then, “Strange little song, you say?”

Maxwell already knows what Cole means. “So the Red Templars used whatever road was near the bear’s den. Did it… drive her mad?”

“I don’t know,” Cole says and hops off the stone. “Are bears always mad?”

Dorian watches Cole wander away and hums thoughtfully. “Maybe he can find where those shipments come from by listening for them. But that does mean red lyrium has a foothold in this place.”

“Fairbanks’ people can’t stay here, but all that’s out there is war,” Maxwell says quietly. He drags a hand over his face and heaves a sigh. “We have to stop these Freemen fast, but finding them is impossible.”

“Your intrepid lead scout will find them before we all die from rashvine poisoning or bears, I’m sure of it,” Dorian says, bumping his shoulder.

His heart thumps in his throat at the gesture. The little reassurances has been far and few in between these days, though one can easily blame that on the time spent apart and out in the Graves. But Maxwell has also been skirting around the mage, unable to shake off the conversation he overheard. He knows, he _knows_ , that Dorian asked for silence at the very beginning but hearing him tell Varric that their… relationship is momentary, a passing thing, as a way to deny it exists still stings. 

Dorian notices his awkward silence and frowns. “Maxwell?”

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing.” He catches sight of the Inquisition’s resident Warden returning to camp with Sera, Solas, and several soldiers, and Harding going up to greet them. His fingers close around the whetstone and he quickly stands. “I need to get this back to Blackwall.”

He leaves before Dorian can get in another word.

Maxwell barely says a word to Dorian all throughout the next day but then there was hardly any time for people to sit around and talk. The Freemen apparently multiplied overnight and they are far more aggressive about clearing the Graves of intruders. Maxwell had to rescue two groups of foraging refugees from the Freemen patrols and Varric later noted that their armor looked new, like they were recently outfitted by a wealthy benefactor.

“Thank you for bringing them back safely, Inquisitor,” Fairbanks says later that afternoon. He looks exhausted and one can’t ignore the dark dots of blood on his sleeves. “They’re out in greater numbers today. Either they’re readying to take more shipments through the Graves or they’re trying to push you out.”

“I’ll send men here to help protect the Reach,” Maxwell says. “But for now, keep everyone close.”

He returns to camp to learn two groups of soldiers had been ambushed by Freemen patrols near Silver Falls. He looks at the covered bodies at the edge of camp, Cole’s hunched form sitting nearby, and then at Cassandra leaning on a table with a dark expression. Her face and neck are healing but her skin is still mottled red. She looks terrifying and he cautiously approaches.

“How many?” he asks.

“Five, and seven injured. Harding is sending word to Leliana.” She sighs. “You’d think this would be an easy task dealing with deserters, but the Red Templars? Fairbanks should’ve told us beforehand.”

“He didn’t know what the red lyrium was,” Maxwell points out. “What could he say?”

“Anything. Anything would’ve been better than nothing.” She looks around the camp. “I’m not sure we even have enough people for this. Imagine - the Inquisition mustering an army just to push out these so-called Freemen of the Dales at a woodsman’s request. It sounds ridiculous.”

It does, but those people wouldn’t know what’s conspiring in these woods and he says so. “They don’t know what we know. Fairbanks only knew that we could help. We faced the Red Templars before and we won. We can do it again.”

Cassandra takes a deep breath. “You’re right. I - I suppose the forest is getting to me.”

“Think it already did,” Maxwell says and she glowers half-heartedly at him. “But you’re still trying. That counts for something.”

“I suppose,” she says and then straightens up when a grim-faced Harding returns after sending a raven to Skyhold.

The next morning, Harding puts her foot down.

“I’m going to run out of people before we find these bastards,” Harding says. “We need Fairbanks.”

She stares meaningfully at the Seeker, who’s looking at an updated map with tired eyes. Cassandra’s fingers keep twitching like she wants to scratch her face but she keeps them flat on the weatherworn table. Her frown deepens the longer she thinks of their options, and then she sighs.

“Fine. Tell him that we need help,” she says. She looks at Maxwell. “But only volunteers, and make sure they know what we’re up against.”

The refugees are more than happy to help, knowing that the sooner the Inquisition finds and stops the Freemen, the better off they will all be. The soldiers among them volunteer to find the little-known trails and hideaways scattered throughout the Graves and the one-time farmers and local tradesmen Maxwell rescued from the Freemen patrols explain what they observed. Blackwall begins pressing them for everything they can remember and a pattern slowly emerges. Fairbanks listens more than speaks, his brow furrowing with every new detail that comes out.

“Wait,” he suddenly says. “That’s why they increased their patrols. The shipments come in waves over two weeks. The last time, we lost seven to Duhaime and his ilk. Maker, I should’ve known.”

“We know now,” Maxwell says firmly. “This means Duhaime and the others will be out in the open. They’ll be easier to find.”

“I hope you’re right, Inquisitor,” Fairbanks says. 

The Orlesian takes out a wrinkled map of the Emerald Graves and shows where the Freemen were sighted. A wagon had been seen on a little-used path winding through Peacewood and Silver Falls; the trail is a half-hour’s walk north of Watcher’s Canyon and hard to find if one isn’t familiar with the land. An apprentice cooper and former soldier recruit, Thierry, offers to help.

“I grew up right at the edge of the Graves,” he says while they hike through the thick green and gold undergrowth. “Most of us did. Some came from the Plains. That’s where most of the fighting took place, and we were caught in the middle.”

“Pisspots can’t off themselves without getting everybody else stuck in their mess,” Sera mutters.

Thierry looks at her, startled, and then glances warily at Maxwell. He just shrugs so Thierry continues. “Everything you saw in the Reach is everything we brought with us. By then, all the nobles were back in Val Royeaux, sitting out the war, so we started taking what we needed from their villas and châteaus. Except Château d’Onterre. Nobody goes there.”

“Why?” Maxwell asks.

“Well.” Thierry pauses. “Something wasn’t right about it. Gertrude warned me not to go but we needed clothes, tools, weapons, medicine, anything. I went with a couple friends and we got past the gate, but one step inside and….” The man visibly shivers. “Whatever we needed, it wasn’t worth searching the whole place.”

“Nobody has heard from the d’Onterres in years,” Vivienne muses. “They started keeping to themselves after their daughter was born and stopped coming to Val Royeaux shortly after. It was all very strange.”

“You never sent anyone out here to see if they were well?” Maxwell asks.

“A few did. At first they said the d’Onterres chose to stay in their château because their child was ill, then later… the château was simply abandoned. No one knew what happened. It was all anyone talked about at the salons for months… then a Blight and a civil war came to Ferelden.”

They walk in silence for the next ten minutes, each silently wondering what could cause a titled family of some repute to vanish in the Emerald Graves. The more Maxwell looks, the less idyllic and peaceful the woods appear to be and that’s before he thinks about the meaning of each moss-covered tree or the Freemen bringing red lyrium here. August rams bray while foraging and nugs scamper over the green hills but they don’t look so innocent now. What did they see, what did they hear, what do they know about the Graves’ terrible secrets? 

Thierry stops in the middle of an old dirt path winding through Peacewood. He studies the ground for disturbances and says, “No one’s been here in over a week. Nothing. Not even a nug.”

“I thought we’d encounter more Freemen patrols by now,” Blackwall says while wiping sweat from his brow. 

Even Thierry looks confused. He finds higher ground and peers through the dense greenery and the bewildering dappling of sunlight and shadows. “They’re not here. Maybe your presence scared them into hiding. Your Worship.”

“Or they told the Red Templars that the Inquisition knows,” Vivienne says. She holds a hand up. “Listen, do you hear that? I spent enough time in these woods to know what it sounds like, and I don’t hear anything.”

Maxwell cocks his head to the side and strains to hear anything outside of the wind rustling through the trees and the river on their right. In fact, the rams have vanished and there isn’t a brown nug in sight. Even worse, he hears something under the resounding silence, an uneasy prickling chime. Thierry treads on a brittle twig and it vanishes. 

“I suggest returning to camp,” Vivienne says. “It seems our arrival started something the five of us are not equipped to handle.”

The apprentice cooper goes deathly pale and sidles over to Blackwall. “This road is the quickest way back to the Reach.”

Using the road turns out to be a mistake. Fifteen minutes in, they round a slope and encounter a most unwelcome sight.

“The Inquisitor!” a Red Templar bellows, flushing birds out of the trees and nearly spooking the horse hitched to a heavily loaded supply wagon. They pull out their longsword and the other templars and Freemen guarding it follow suit. “Kill him!”

Blackwall shoves Thierry behind him and Vivienne encases the templar in ice. The Warden smashes his shield into two Freemen while Sera fires an arrow through the slits of a templar’s helm. Maxwell throws his dagger at another; red lyrium splinters and falls while the templar pulls the dagger out of her shoulder and charges.

The soft insidious humming of a song slowly fill the air while they fight around the wagon and the anxious horse hitched to it. The Freemen prove no match for the Inquisition’s elite but the Red Templars are tenacious and brutal. They manage to break two of Sera’s fingers and Blackwall’s nose, and cut Maxwell’s face before Vivienne immolates them under their broken armor.

Maxwell wipes blood from his cheek and then catches the horse’s bridle before the gelding bolts with the wagon in tow. He looks around for Thierry and finds the man cowering behind moss-covered stone, white as a sheet. 

“Thierry,” he says. “It’s safe now.”

Thierry slowly and unsteadily unfolds himself and nearly faints.

“The poor boy,” Vivienne tuts while grasping Sera’s hand tightly to mend her fingers. Sera looks away pointedly and clenches her jaw while the bones shift back into place. “I’m trying to heal your hand, stop fidgeting.”

“Don’t have to like it,” she mutters.

Blackwall tears a strip of cloth from a fallen Freeman to soak up the red dripping from his nose. He starts rooting through their satchels and pockets, looking for information. When he finds none, he starts prodding the dead templars, frowning deeply while breaking off the red lyrium growing on their armor. He carefully peels the armor off of one and ends up tearing off mottled gray flesh as well.

“And he’s down,” Sera quips when Thierry faints. “He’s never unseeing this one.”

“He never should’ve seen it in the first place,” Maxwell says quietly, remembering what Cassandra had said earlier in the day. “And they never should’ve had to come here.”

“Yeah, which is why you’re marching to that fancy palace and knocking some heads together,” Sera says. “Least they deserve - _ow_ , watch it!”

“Your fingers are fine,” Vivienne says, letting her go quickly. “Your turn, my dear.”

Maxwell shakes his head. “Blackwall first, then Thierry. It’s just a cut.”

He strokes the horse’s muzzle, calming it. Once he’s certain the gelding isn’t about to run off, he goes to the back of the wagon. Sera is already there, staring at the templars’ precious cargo.

“Not touching that,” she declares to him, taking a large step back from a wooden chest bursting with red lyrium. “Nope, nope, nope.”

Blackwall joins them with his newly healed nose. “Maker, how’d the Freemen get involved in this? Didn’t they have questions when they saw this?”

“Did you expect anything from dishonorable deserters?” Vivienne asks. “I’ll revive the poor boy after we deal with the lyrium. My dear? Inquisitor? _Trevelyan_.”

He blinks and breathes in sharply, forcing air into his lungs. The prickling tang follows suit and he coughs harshly into his bloody sleeve. Once he regains his composure, he looks at Vivienne. “What were you saying?”

Vivienne looks at him oddly. “How do you want to proceed?” Then, “Are you well?”

Maxwell shakes his head and drags a hand through his hair. He doesn’t look at the virulent red swirling around the chest. “I’m fine. Unhitch the horse, then destroy everything. Leave nothing behind.”

Sera drags Thierry out of the way and crouches near him, poking his face, while Maxwell and Blackwall free the gelding. Vivienne torches the wagon’s contents with fire so hot that it burns white. Maxwell still hears the red lyrium shattering from the heat and stares at the red bursts swirling in the fire. Once the entire thing burns down, Vivienne dismisses the flames and lets the wind slowly sweep the ashes away.

“So,” Sera says while poking Thierry’s cheek, “should we wake him?”

* * *

Sera notices a wall while scouting ahead and Maxwell asks Thierry if he knows which estate it’s attached to. 

The apprentice cooper scrunches his nose while thinking and then shrugs. “Fairbanks might know which one it is. I only know the name of the d’Onterre one.”

Fairbanks isn’t at the Reach when they return. Gertrude tells them he had gone out with two of Harding’s people and then helps Thierry inside to a salvaged mattress. Someone else offers food and water; Maxwell refuses the food and drinks from a chipped porcelain cup while waiting for Fairbanks to return. He wonders which Orlesian noble used to own the powder blue and gold china.

Someone apparently told Fairbanks about Thierry when he returned because the first thing he does is go to the man’s side and speak for a few minutes. Maxwell watches, wondering what information was exchanged.

“Hope you’re not in trouble,” Sera whispers loudly and Blackwall elbows her. “What?”

Fairbanks approaches them with a grave face. He looks at each of them, eyes lingering on Maxwell the longest, and then he says, “You kept Thierry safe. Thank you.”

“It was the least I could do,” Maxwell says.

“This lyrium shipment is what troubles me. That means more are already on their way. He says you encountered them near Villa Maurel.”

“Fancy wall, stupid name,” Sera says.

Fairbanks ignores her. “You should station people there, Inquisitor, and watch the road. Wherever the wagons came from, one of the Freemen leaders will surely be there.”

“Then we don’t have a minute more to waste,” Blackwall says, rising to his feet. He grimaces when his knee cracks. “I am not getting too old for this.”

“And, uh, Inquisitor,” Fairbanks says before Maxwell could follow the others out of the cave. When Maxwell turns to him, Fairbanks gestures to his own face. “You might want to get that looked at.”

He touches the side of his face and winces when hot pain radiates outward. He lifts away tacky blood on his fingertips and discreetly wipes it off while leaving Watcher’s Reach.

* * *

It goes like this.

Harding dispatches three scouts to watch Villa Maurel and the surrounding Peacewood during the night. The elves and dwarf return before dawn with news that a small force is occupying a veranda on the property and its leader is not a typical Orlesian.

“Duhaime’s Venatori?” Maxwell says, startled. “What is he doing here?”

“The templars and Venatori both work for Corypheus,” Cassandra says. “Perhaps he is here to oversee the smuggling operations. What are the numbers?”

One agent scratches her head. “Ten, maybe, including Duhaime. More patrol the villa but we couldn’t count heads. Something spooked the critters and _that_ brought out the swords. They’re on edge, Seeker Cassandra. They know we’re here. It’s just a matter of when.”

“Tell us more about the villa,” Harding says.

When pale morning breaks through the Graves’ thick canopy, half of the camp picks up and moves to Watcher’s Reach to establish a forward base. Refugees point and whisper at the well-armed soldiers taking over the patrols, at the towering Qunari and the crossbow-wielding dwarf, at the strangely helpful coincidences trailing a pale young man with a wide-brimmed hat.

“Is this necessary?” Fairbanks asks, watching the hustle and bustle with a deep frown. “I realize this is a temporary arrangement but all you’re doing is alerting the Freemen.”

“You need protection,” Maxwell says. “You’ve done incredibly so far but my best scout found proof that a Tevinter cult is involved and-”

“Tevinter?” Fairbanks’ gaze flickers to Dorian, who’s browsing Gertrude’s salvaged wares with a critical eye.

“He’s with - he’s with us,” Maxwell says. “Duhaime is a member of the cult and may have brought mages with him. It’s best that we handle him, not you. You and the others need to stay here until they’re gone.”

“They will. I won’t,” Fairbanks replies. “I know these woods. I can take you to the villa.”

“Hope you know how to use a sword,” Blackwall says.

“I’ve done my fair share of fighting, Warden Blackwall. How else could I survive the Freemen?”

Two of Harding’s scouts come in to report a caravan idling next to a storehouse south of Villa Maurel and activity behind the villa’s locked gates. The Red Templars are on the move and the Inquisition must react quickly before they vanish with their lyrium. With Duhaime based at the northern end of the villa and Freemen patrols all around the region, the Inquisition decides to divide, conquer, and rendezvous in front of the villa’s gates.

“Be careful,” Maxwell tells everyone as they break off into their respective parties. “And good luck.”

“Maker watch over us all,” Fairbanks adds while Blackwall, Sera, and Solas head south with several soldiers.

At Nettle Pass, Fairbanks provides directions and then they part ways, him leaving with Varric, the Iron Bull, and Vivienne to stop the templars while Maxwell takes the others north to circle around Villa Maurel and ambush Duhaime. The route they use goes through a wilder region of Peacewood, thick with verdant trees and bushes and sheer stone walls covered in moss and vines. One can easily become disoriented if they aren’t intimately familiar with the Graves or knows what landmarks to look for - if they can be found. The forest has nearly claimed the old Chantry statues placed throughout to commemorate the Exalted March, as though the Emerald Knights are having the last laugh. 

“The forest mutes everything,” Cassandra mutters. She looks skyward as if she’ll see the chirping birds in the canopy. “I don’t like it.”

“If you listen,” Cole replies, “you can hear it all reaching for the sun.”

“You’ll have to explain that one to me. Trevelyan?”

Maxwell tears his eyes away from the green and gray Chantry statue he’d been studying and hurries up the hill after the others. Dorian lingers behind Cassandra and Cole, waiting for him to catch up.

“Sorry,” he says awkwardly, knowing he shouldn’t get distracted at such a crucial moment.

“Don’t worry, no one will speak of it,” Dorian says. He eyes the others and then leans in, quietly says, “We should talk.”

Judging by his terse tone, he means to discuss something seriously but this is hardly the time and place for it. Maxwell looks at him, befuddled. “Now?”

“Well, no. But soon. Whenever it’s most convenient. Tonight, after we deal with this mess?”

He takes another look at the mage. Dorian is staring at some distant point, hiding his face from view, but his knuckles are white as they clutch his stave. Dread crawls up Maxwell’s back as he tries to remember what happened in the past week, what might’ve occurred to upset the mage.

“We have some time,” he slowly says. “What is it?”

“Do you know how often we’ve spoken to each other this past week?”

He has to think for a few seconds. “Twice? Three times, maybe? You know how busy everyone’s been since Fairbanks said the Red Templars were here-”

“It’s not that,” Dorian says. “I know the Inquisitor is at the world’s beck and call, but that’s not why you’re avoiding me. I’m not… wrong, am I?”

Does he know? Maxwell looks down at his feet, mouth dry. “I wasn’t trying to.”

“But you did. I think I know why.” Dorian hesitates. “So does Varric.”

“How would he know I was….” _You know._

There was a conversation he was never supposed to hear, when Varric pressed the matter and Dorian showed his hand. He was never supposed to learn how quickly Dorian would deny what’s transpiring between them when asked or how he expected them to go their separate ways when a reason presented itself. Maxwell was never supposed to know that Dorian believed they wouldn’t last, that the mage would break away at the first whispers to spare him whatever scrutiny and scandal awaited them.

_“I’m not inviting trouble for him, Varric. Let it be.”_

“He was right,” Dorian sighs. “You heard everything.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Maxwell says, anxious and annoyed. “Dorian-”

Something glints in the green, a red flash, and Cassandra shouts, “Get down!”

He ducks and a red lyrium shard shatters against Cassandra’s shield. The prickling notes of an insidious song burst next to his ear while templars rush out of the dense underbrush, grotesque, glowing red. Dorian casts a barrier and slams his staff blade into a templar’s helm. The abomination shrieks, song in its voice, and tosses him aside. Maxwell swings his sword into the horror’s lyrium-crusted chest and kicks it back. The templar stumbles and raises its arms when he brings the greatsword down on its head.

He runs to Dorian’s side and hauls the mage back to his feet. He turns to Cassandra and Cole but the spirit is nowhere to be seen; the templar trying to flank Cassandra suddenly staggers and twists around, grabbing at something on its misshapen back. Cole’s daggers flash again, cutting deep and breaking off lyrium spires. It screams, an inhuman screech, and then Cassandra beheads it. She kicks it down the hill into the river down below and whirls around, shield raised. It blocks a thrown lyrium shard but not the templar barreling into her side. It knocks her to the ground but Dorian hexes it before it can gouge her. The horror claws at its head until Cole slices its arms off and drives his daggers into its gray chest.

“They were expecting us,” Cassandra says breathlessly while scraping flesh and lyrium off her shield. She kicks the corpse aside and looks around. “They knew we’d be coming here-”

Cole jerks his head around and leaps at the templar streaking out of the shadows. Red lyrium flashes and Cassandra falls with a shallow gasp. Cole skirts around the templar, looking for weaknesses, but the templar is even faster; its glowing lyrium arms stab at and block Cole’s daggers at every turn. Maxwell runs to Cassandra and something slams into him. He tumbles to the damp dirt and tries to get up. Pain sears his side and he crumples, gasping shallowly and tasting blood on his tongue. He presses his hand against it and finds blood and slivers of red lyrium on his palm. The forest blurs and he shakes his head, trying to clear it, while blindly reaching for Cassandra’s longsword.

Another templar darts towards him, sunlight glinting off the red lyrium that had consumed its arms and shoulders. Dorian unleashes a torrent of white and blue flame, and doesn’t let up until lyrium bursts. The burning body falls in front of Maxwell. He stares at the blackened corpse and then at Dorian, who’s shaking and furious and muttering to himself while gesturing at the dead templars.

A shadow moves behind the mage, faster than any living thing.

“Dorian!” he shouts and lurches to his feet, lunges forward just as the templar sinks its arm into Dorian’s back.

The world compresses. He can’t breathe. His left hand burns. The anchor latches onto the edges of a thinned Veil and _pulls_.

The templars whirl around as the Veil rips apart with a roar. The rift pulses green and wrong as it grows, and demons shriek while falling out of it into the physical world. Maxwell sees Cole striking one of the templars and dancing away, and tries to tell the spirit to run, to find the others and warn them about the templars, the rift, the Inquisitor’s end. He falls to his knees instead, head swimming, while the rift clings to his left hand and refuses to let go. The world goes cold and the templars, the demons, Cole unfocus, bleed at the edges.

Warmth shivers through the tendrils of Fade magic connecting him to the Veil. It presses against the anchor and pours into his body like water from a pitcher. He chokes and tastes blood on his lips as the warmth swells against the back of his throat.

 _Have hope. I am here now._

It’s not his thought. He has none.

* * *

“Cole saw everything,” Cassandra says while Dorian helps him to his feet. He sways, staggers into the mage and Dorian wraps a steadying arm around his waist. He wants to sink into the embrace but Cassandra is watching, eyebrow twitching with confusion and half-formed truths. “He said a spirit came out of the rift with the demons. It healed us and helped him send the demons back.”

“And the templars,” Cole says. “No hope for them left.”

“A spirit?” His head still thuds painfully and his chest aches, heavy and hollow. He can’t even think about the stabbing pain in his side. “How?”

“It wanted to help,” Cole replies. “It heard you. ‘Have hope. I am here now.’”

_Have hope._

He raises his left hand; the anchor glows and crackles as if in the presence of a rift. He doesn’t recall one in these parts, unless one tore itself through the Veil overnight. Unless he used the anchor.

“You really don’t remember,” Dorian says.

“No. Why? What happened?”

“It wanted to help,” Cole says again. “But everything was too loud, too much. It couldn’t think. It needed something to think on. An anchor.”

Maxwell stares at his left hand again. “Like mine?”

“It possessed you,” Cassandra says. “I… I never saw it happen to non-mages without blood magic. Cole said it entered you through the anchor and left the same way. I suppose we’re lucky it chose to leave at all.”

He shut his eyes tightly, trying to remember what happened after a templar stabbed Dorian in the back, but all he recalls is the red lyrium and pain… and a flush of tangible warmth, an impression on his mind. _Have hope. I am here now._ His fingers curl around the anchor. “Is it turning me into a mage?”

“I doubt it’s that simple but you might want to stop using it to open rifts in the meantime,” Dorian says with the authority of an academic, yet his arm tightens around Maxwell’s waist, betraying him. “Spirits are rarely interested in crossing the Veil. I don’t know how you compelled it to appear, but let’s be grateful it didn’t turn into a demon. Those are the ones that try to possess you, and we can’t have an abomination masquerading as the Inquisitor, can we?”

“Nor can we have word of this getting out,” Cassandra says. “Nobody say anything until we’re back at Skyhold. Solas needs to examine it again.” She looks up at the sky. “We should’ve dealt with Duhaime already.”

“Change of plans then,” Dorian says with brittle cheer as they limp back towards the rendezvous point in front of Villa Maurel.

“Not like we have a choice,” Cassandra replies. “Trevelyan, can you fight?”

“I have to, don’t I?” Maxwell says. “Have to pretend a spirit didn’t borrow me for a few minutes to fight demons I accidentally brought here through a rift I created. Where’s my sword?”

“Lost,” she says. “You’ll have to borrow one.”

Harritt is going to murder him.

Varric, the Iron Bull, Vivienne, and Fairbanks are waiting near the villa gates. They look roughed up and winded but are otherwise fine, a relief considering their task. The Iron Bull spots them first and alerts the others before approaching.

“Wow, looks like you all took a tumble down some hills,” he says, eye darting between them. “And a mountain or two. Take care of Duhaime?”

“Something happened by the river,” Cassandra says, picking her words carefully. “Templars ambushed us.”

Fairbanks looks rather ashen and his sword trembles in his hand. A sliver of lyrium is embedded in the bloodied steel. “Never seen anything like it.They - they weren’t _human_. What happened to them?”

“Red lyrium,” Varric says. “You really don’t want to know the details. Anyway, we destroyed the wagons and pulled notes off their bodies. This guy Maliphant should be inside right now.”

“Any word from Blackwall and the others?” Maxwell asks. “We could try taking on Duhaime without them but they should be here by now.”

“Ten minutes,” Cassandra says, “and then we strike.”

Blackwall, Sera, and Solas appear in five, bringing news that they routed the Freemen patrols and a group of templars near Watcher’s Canyon, clearing the area of all possible threats. Solas’s eyes narrow upon spotting Maxwell and he clenches his left hand, hoping Solas will keep the questions to himself until they’re back at Skyhold. People like Fairbanks don’t need to know what else his supposed gift from Andraste could do.

“We late to the party?” Sera asks.

“No,” Maxwell says. “Duhaime’s still alive.”

“What happened?” Blackwall asks suspiciously. 

“Templars,” Cassandra says. “They’re dead now.”

“Must’ve been some fight.” Blackwall then frowns. “Where’s your sword, Trevelyan?”

“I lost it,” Maxwell admits.

“Harritt’s going to kill you,” Blackwall says gravely. “It’s all he ever complained about back at Haven. ‘What in the Maker’s name is the Herald doing with my swords?’ and ‘I didn’t come all the way up to these frigid blighted mountains for this,’ and ‘If he comes back with another broken blade, I will strangle him - Breach or no Breach.’”

“Do you have one I can borrow?” Maxwell sighs.

The Iron Bull says, “One moment,” and goes to a nearby bush. He drags out a bundle of weapons wrapped up in bloodied canvas. “Take your pick. But not those. The templars were using them.”

After Maxwell finds a suitable sword and Sera filches two bundles of arrows, they enter the villa grounds and go north to find Duhaime. With each stride, Fairbanks sheds his shock from facing Red Templars, face grim with determination as they catch sight of Duhaime’s soldiers positioned around a beautiful veranda.

“I waited long enough for this,” Fairbanks says as the soldiers sound the alarm.

Duhaime emerges from the veranda with several Freemen. Heavily armed and armored, he towers over his cohorts as he raises his greataxe and bellows a challenge. A strip of cloth hangs from his heavy belt, displaying Tevinter dragons.

“Well, he certainly isn’t hiding anything,” Varric says and cranks up Bianca.

An arrow abruptly tears it off and Sera cackles maniacally. Dorian looks at her with no small amount of horror as an enraged Duhaime orders the Freemen to attack.

“You are a menace,” Blackwall says, grinning, and then blocks a Freeman’s sword with his shield before gutting the Orlesian.

The battle is swift and brutal but Duhaime’s superior numbers can’t hold against the Inquisition. They slowly and surely overwhelm the Freemen and the Venatori soldiers Duhaime brought with him, painting the villa grounds with blood while magic sizzles in the air. Nobody comments on Maxwell staying at the back, favoring his side while helping Cole take down the flankers. The pain worsens the more he fights; at one point, he presses his hand to it, gasping against the pain, and lifts away blood.

“Silence him or drown him,” Cole says. “The false one ends here. But there was hope and they despaired.”

He needs to ask Cole exactly what happened after the rift appeared.

The Venatori’s small presence in the Emerald Graves ends when the Iron Bull matches Duhaime blow for blow, overwhelms him with sheer brute force, and splits his chest open. The Qunari huffs a laugh and wipes blood off his face before turning around.

“You missed a spot,” Vivienne says distastefully, gesturing at the blood and gore sticking to his arms, chest, and back. “You’re taking a bath before you return to camp.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the Iron Bull says cheerfully and yanks his axe out of Duhaime, spraying blood everywhere. “Where to next?”

“The villa,” Maxwell says.

“Wait, wait!” Sera darts in and fishes about Duhaime’s belt. She grimaces while wrenching away a bloodied chain with a large iron-wrought key. “I need my picks. Keys will do.”

Vivienne checks everyone for injuries, mending them quickly because time is of the essence here. Not even Solas escapes her scrutiny, though he waves her off by saying he can mend himself. Exasperated, she marches over to Maxwell and examines his side. Her brow furrows. 

“When did this happen?”

“Elsewhere,” Maxwell says, flinching when she carefully prods the wound. Behind her, Dorian is watching with a tight expression, hands clenched and trembling. 

“Someone did a poor job of healing it,” she mutters while her hands glow.

“He can’t do it,” Maxwell says awkwardly. Other words stick to the back of his throat like _“It’s worse than it looks,”_ and _“A spirit saved me.”_ “I’ll explain it later.”

She stares at him suspiciously while mending it. “It’s deeper than I expected but this should stop the bleeding. A forest is no place for recovering from wounds like this and I’m not about to see the Inquisition grind to a halt because the Inquisitor refused to see a healer.”

“I’m not refusing. Just… make it stop bleeding,” Maxwell says. “I’ll be okay.”

Vivienne tuts, clearly not believing him, and mends the wound before moving onto Cassandra.

Once everyone is ready, they go to the villa’s locked gates. Sera hands Fairbanks the key and he opens them to a picture-perfect path lined with trellises covered in greenery and flowers. Villa Maurel looks like it belongs just outside an Orlesian city, not nestled deep in the wilds. But if one looks closely, they can see the vines are running wild and dried blood dots the ground. Violence came to Villa Maurel, too.

“After you,” Maxwell tells Fairbanks and follows the Orlesian inside to confront Maliphant.

* * *

“If the templars still need the Freemen, he’ll return,” Maxwell tells Fairbanks in front of Watcher’s Reach. “You only need to send word.”

“Inquisitor, no one can rest easy knowing Maliphant is still alive,” Fairbanks retorts. He’s fuming, shoulders tense and mouth a thin line. Despite the bandaged wound on his thigh, he refuses to sit. “Auguste is still out there, too. As long as they’re both alive, the Freemen aren’t going to stop attacking us or helping your enemies move those… shipments through the Graves.”

“My people are searching for them now,” Maxwell says with as much patience as he can muster. His throat is raw and dry, his body aching, and he can’t breathe without feeling a sharp stabbing in his side. But he can’t rest until he reassures the agitated Orlesian. “Maliphant ran. The Freemen know now you have the Inquisition’s backing. They’ll think twice the next time they help the templars. You won, Fairbanks. The Emerald Graves are yours again.”

“Not just mine.” Fairbanks looks at the jubilant refugees inside the cavern. The mood has lightened considerably, misery and despair shedding from the Orlesians as they learn they no longer have to live. “And the Graves are safer now because you took a chance on me, Inquisitor. I can’t thank you enough.”

“This only happened because you said something. Nobody would’ve known what was happening here if you hadn’t spoken up.” He spots the others waiting impatiently near the south pass. “I’ll send word as soon as we find Auguste or Maliphant.”

“Thank you. Maker watch over you, Inquisitor,” Fairbanks says and heads inside the cavern to talk to the others.

Patrolling soldiers salute Maxwell all along the overgrown path back to the base camp. Just outside its perimeter, Solas sidles over to Maxwell. “Inquisitor-”

“Yes, Solas?” he asks tiredly. He wants to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, not have the conversation Solas so desperately wants.

Solas’s ears twitch while he quickly glances at the others near them. His voice drops to a low serious whisper. “Beware of the anchor’s power. You know as well as I that it is the bridge between this world and the Fade, and so has the power to affect both. Whatever lurks on the other side of the Veil is far more dangerous than any you encounter here.”

“You mean demons.”

Solas raises an eyebrow. “I mean all that live in the Fade. Is a demon not a spirit whose purpose was twisted beyond recognition by external forces? Is a well-meaning spirit not as dangerous as a corrupted one? They are powerful beings-”

“Not… really the time for a lecture on the nature of spirits, Solas,” Maxwell says.

“You’re right, now isn’t the time. Apologies. But please, keep in mind that the anchor connects you to the Fade. It has been giving you… passive abilities with no way to protect yourself.”

“Like what happened when I entered your dream,” Maxwell says. “That was the anchor’s doing.”

“Exactly.” Solas glances at his left hand. “I will need to examine the anchor when we return to Skyhold.”

He nods and wets his lip, wincing when the scabbed cut stings. “You’re the expert.”

“I know,” Solas says and walks away, presumably to set protective wards.

Harding is leaning on a table cluttered with maps and missives. A raven is sleeping in a large cage in one corner, head tucked under its glossy wing. She looks up, smiling, when Maxwell approaches. Her smile slowly tilts downward when she takes in his state. “Are you… well? Inquisitor?”

“Long day,” he says simply. He glances at the notes under her hands. “From Skyhold?”

“Just a curious Nightingale,” she says. “You should… probably turn in for the night. I’ll let you know when we find Auguste.”

“Thank you,” he says and limps away.

Soldiers stare at him as he passes by but he barely registers the shock and horror on their faces. He only cares about collapsing in the nearest empty tent he can find because he doesn’t think he can stay on his feet for much longer. He drags his feet into one nestled at the back of camp and drops his sword to the ground. He fumbles with the belts and buckles keeping his dented and cracked armor on him, trying to loosen the stiff leather.

“Maxwell?”

He looks at Dorian pulling back the tent flaps while tugging off his right vambrace. The mage steps inside the tent and pulls it shut watches him drop the armor to his feet. Maxwell peels off his gauntlet and flexes his bruised knuckles.

“Here.” Dorian kicks the vambrace aside and helps him unbuckle the other. The belt with its satchels, missing dagger, and yet-unused war horn go next, but Maxwell freezes when Dorian reaches for the knot of his bloodstained sash. Dorian hesitates. “Is there something I should know?”

“It’s nothing, let me-” Maxwell tries to pull apart the knot. Dorian gives him a small knife and he cuts away the ruined silk, face burning despite everything. “It’s nothing.”

“Is it particular to the Marches?” Dorian asks. He must be thinking about Varric’s similar attire. “Or Ostwick?”

“This kind,” Maxwell says while bundling the fabric to toss aside, “is only worn by House Trevelyan. Patterns go back to when my ancestors first came to the Marches from the west. At least, that’s what I was told.”

“Explains why I rarely see those patterns elsewhere,” Dorian muses. “A merchant was selling one at market once but had no takers. Wrong crowd, apparently.”

Maxwell wonders what anyone in Tevinter would do with these silks. Who did they think the embroidered patterns were for? He sheds the left gauntlet and stiffly shrugs off the heavy leather overcoat. He stares at the ragged hole and the massive dark stain in its side.

“That Red Templar,” Dorian says darkly, taking it from his hands and tossing it. “Moved faster than I could react. Suppose we should all be lucky it didn’t shred your innards. No spirit could’ve saved you from that.”

Maxwell remembers fire and lyrium flashing in the dappled sunlight, sinking into Dorian’s back. He reaches out but catches himself, fingers curling hesitantly, uselessly. Dorian notices and smiles wanly. “I’m all right. The spirit healed me. Not even a scratch on my back. Remarkable, really.”

He laughs weakly, unable to piece together whatever the spirit did to save Dorian from certain death. He looks at the anchor glimmering along the little cracks around his left hand, a window into the Fade. What else is it capable of doing? What else can it do to him, to others around him? Others were right to say they were all lucky a spirit came forth instead of a demon. Imagine if the Inquisitor had become an abomination. Then what’ll become of the Inquisition? The world? Would anyone else be able to stop the horrors he relives every other night?

“... Maxwell. _Maxwell_.” Dorian is holding his left hand with both of his and yet the anchor still glows through leather, flesh, and bone. Fingers wrap tightly around his bruised knuckles and he looks up at the mage, suddenly realizes he’s struggling to breathe. “You’re all right. I’m all right.”

“Today, maybe. But what if - what if the next time… I can’t just rip into the Veil again,” he says haltingly. He can’t stop shaking, trembling around the terrified aching hollow in his chest, and he hates it. He hates how easily the Red Templars overpowered him, how close he came to losing Dorian and Cassandra. What are the odds another spirit will willingly come through the rift to help someone like him? 

The Iron Bull tells him constantly about laughing at the enemy’s best attempts before returning the favor, but it’s Thram’s words that surface in his mind, that tell him what dragon blood promises to give. 

_“Your enemies, the people who wish ill upon you and your Inquisition, they are the ones who should be afraid. They should think twice about crossing your path.”_

“I need to talk to Thram,” he says.

“You’re not serious.”

“I am.” He’s survived so far with what he learned from his trainer and his templar sister, but he’s escaped death too many times now; one of these days, he’ll run out of luck or coincidence but not because he was too foolish to ignore an offer to learn. He can’t just drop another mountain on his enemy or hope a spirit crosses the Veil to mend his body and save those he loves. “I can’t let this happen again. Not to you, not anyone.”

“You know what she’s asking you to do. Am I really worth the risk?” Dorian asks. He’s trying to be flippant but there’s something in his eyes, in the way he lets go of Maxwell’s hand to cup his face. 

“Yes,” he says and Dorian kisses him, a brief hard press that tastes faintly of blood. He pulls away before Maxwell can return it.

“I’m not taking advantage of you in your state,” Dorian says smartly while helping him finish getting rid of the extra layers of metal and leather. “You don’t need that, or the questions.”

A memory of their interrupted conversation abruptly surfaces. “Dorian….”

“We’ll talk later,” the mage says. “I promise. But right now, you need rest and we both need to get out of this blighted forest.”

Sleep. He could use it. He undoes all the buttons on his reinforced jerkin and takes it off, revealing the deep red staining his tunic. It sticks to a mass of tender scars on his side and he hisses while peeling the cloth away. He tosses aside the bloody shirt and then notices Dorian watching him, this time with a pained expression.

“I need to learn how to heal that,” he says while opening a satchel on his belt. “I have to. Can’t rely on other healers or elfroot or a spirit of hope all the time.”

“I’m okay. I’m all right.”

“You keep saying that,” and Dorian shoves a small green vial at him. “Why don’t I believe you?”

Maxwell has nothing to say.

* * *

The Iron Bull watches him yawn for the fifth time in a minute and says, “Couldn’t sleep?”

“I tried,” Maxwell mumbles and then stifles another one.

Morning is cold and misty, shrouding the ground and making soldiers trip over tree roots and broken stone. There’s something eerily beautiful about the Emerald Graves at dawn, and sorrowful, too. If he could, he would sit and stare out at the woods from Andruil’s Wall all morning but scouts are reporting a rogue chevalier’s current location - back at Argon’s Lodge, hours northwest of Andruil’s Wall - and they need to move before he vanishes into the heart of the forest.

“And after we deal with Auguste?” Blackwall asks while tearing a hardened loaf in half. He hands a piece to Sera, who’s nodding off while sitting on the edge of the requisitions table.

“Ask Fairbanks to keep an eye out for Red Templars,” Maxwell replies. “Leave soldiers here to help him and search for Maliphant.”

“Templars will think twice about dragging their red lyrium through these woods now,” the Warden says, satisfied.

“Aw, but what about that Greater Mistral Pierre was talking about?” the Iron Bull asks. “Was looking forward to seeing one up close.”

“And also fight her, I imagine,” Dorian says while walking past. “What has she ever done to deserve your undying admiration and desire for her death at your hands?”

“I’ll tell you but over dinner, it’s quite a story. I’ll even buy and then some,” the Iron Bull says, brow wagging, and chuckles when Dorian huffs and storms away, face dark.

“Bull,” Maxwell mutters, rubbing his dry eyes. “It’s too early.”

“Sorry, Boss.”

Fairbanks is already waiting for him. The Orlesian looks as terrible as Maxwell feels but his eyes are afire, ready to hunt down the Freeman leader hiding in Argon’s Lodge.

“Your scouts told me,” he says. “Argon’s Lodge is half a day’s walk and that’s if you don’t run into trouble. I suggest bringing enough men and supplies to establish a base camp nearby.”

“Good to know,” Cassandra says and waves over a soldier. “I need you to take five and go back to Andruil’s Wall….”

Someone calls out to Maxwell while Fairbanks strides away. He turns around to see a pale blonde woman approach. Her eyes dart between him and Fairbanks’ back while she hurriedly says, “Your Worship? My name is Clara. If I may have a word…?”

“What is it?”


	9. andraste 14: that original lifeline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last resort of good men.

“You should have given him the proof,” Fiona says reproachfully. “That was his choice to make, not yours.”

“She said Fairbanks could help them more if he had the wealth and power that came with it,” Maxwell replies, trying to meet her cold gaze and failing miserably. He doesn’t dare look elsewhere but it is a trying task. “Why wouldn’t he claim the inheritance for their sake after everything else he’s done?”

“We need all the advantages we can get,” Josephine agrees. “If the Council of Heralds approves of the discovery, we can use his new standing-”

“No,” Fiona snaps. “We are not taking advantage of that or him. You took away control of his life, Inquisitor, a life he chose for himself. And did you forget about the Game? Do you think someone who grew up in the Dales like he did will survive it? It’ll destroy him if someone doesn’t murder him first.”

Maxwell does not flinch but his fingers curl at her cutting words. He doesn’t know what it’s like to live and die by the Game but he knows well enough how suffocating it feels to be unable to choose his future. He starts regretting ever agreeing to Clara’s request to prove Fairbanks is more than what he appears to be.

“She’s… not wrong,” Cullen says and Leliana arches an eyebrow. Even Fiona looks taken aback. “He agreed to help us track Red Templar movement in the forest. Let’s not ask more of him.”

“All right,” Maxwell concedes. “You’re right, Enchanter. Can we take back the nomination?”

“I sent it as soon as Pellane arrived so unfortunately, no,” Josephine says while jotting something down on her writing desk, “but I can warn Fairbanks what will happen if the Council of Heralds recognize him as a Lemarque.”

“In the meantime, we’ll follow up on his initial report and train several of his people to better track the templars,” Leliana says. “There have been rumors and previous sightings all throughout the Dales. Most seem to stop at Suledin in Emprise du Lion but others turn south, using the Graves to mask their trail. I’ll let you know when I have more information.”

He nods and turns back to the map. His gaze falls on a series of markers leading away from Therinfal Redoubt. “What about the demon from Therinfal?”

“Barris believes it was an envy demon,” Cullen says. “Envy demons are rare and extremely dangerous. They impersonate people they, well, envy and take over their lives.”

“Cremisius said it took on the forms of Cassandra, Bull, and even himself before they were able to kill it,” Leliana says with some amusement.

Fiona shakes her head. “I do not want to know how Therinfal got its attention and what brought it through the Fade.” 

“I’ll ask Barris once he returns,” Leliana tells her. “If envy demons are impersonators, then it must’ve taken the form of a templar. Barris might have noticed someone acting strangely, or behavior that he couldn’t explain.”

“A demon hiding among the templars….” Cullen says disbelievingly. “It couldn’t have done that on its own. It must’ve had help, but who would risk letting it in? And why?”

“Wait until Barris arrives,” the spymaster repeats. 

“Then what about Hawke?” Maxwell asks. “Anything from Stroud?”

“Hawke was seen near Lake Celestine,” she replies. “There’s nothing from Stroud. It’s probably better that it stays that way. The less attention he brings to himself, the better.”

“All right. Is there anything else?”

“It’s a small matter,” Cullen says, “but Morris seems offended that some of our people aren’t outfitted to properly represent the Inquisition. He’s asking to be allowed to provide them with proper armor.”

Josephine rolls her eyes. “If he had his way, our coffers would be completely drained. But he’s also right. There are those making a name for themselves and it’s only right that they also reflect our influence.”

“Then outfit them,” Maxwell says, baffled. “Why does he need my permission?”

After the meeting, Leliana tells him that Thram is waiting on the battlements near the gatehouse. His stomach flips as he nods and leaves the keep, but he’s made his choice. Whatever power the dragon’s blood offers, he’ll take it if it’ll give him the advantage he desperately needs.

The elf is pacing in a tight circle when Maxwell arrives. She turns sharply and he goes still, watching how she assesses him. She starts circling him, hard eyes roving over him like he’s a stud horse on offer. He clenches his hands and teeth to keep from fidgeting.

“You wish to learn.” It’s not a question. “You wish to commit.”

“Yes,” he says and he’s suddenly calm, certain with his words. “I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”

“You wish to inflict your fear on your enemies instead.”

 _“I can’t let this happen again,”_ he had told Dorian over a week ago. Never again. “They nearly killed me. I want them to know what happens the next time they try. Show me what to do.”

* * *

There is a passage in Brother Florian’s _Flame and Scale_ , replete with Dorian’s sarcastic comments about the scholar’s liberal use of the word “cult”. Maxwell had read it with a quiet laugh the first time he read it but now he stares at Florian’s description of how dragon blood affected the cultists. There are consequences no matter what path he decides to take but to be mired in insanity and rage? Is that the trade-off for harnessing a dragon’s life and fury?

He shuts the book and places it back on the shelf behind his desk. He contemplates the titles before reaching for the pile of tomes Felix sent. He should shelve the old and precious books while he has time.

Felix had taken care to send texts on the Imperium’s history with dragons and the Old Gods, hoping one will enlighten him on Corypheus’s origins and intent. A quick glance at the prose suggests the authors were compensating for the loss of glory and pride as the Imperium shrank from the twin assaults of the Blight and Andraste’s uprising. Maxwell may have met only a few people from Tevinter but they most certainly lack in neither.

He huffs a low laugh at the thought while grabbing a book to shelve. A folded piece of paper falls out and he stares at it in shock. Written in a shaky scrawl across it is the word “Trevelyan.”

A letter from Felix? Why did he hide it in here? He picks it up and unfolds it, finds ink splotches around words formed by a hand that could no longer control its quill.

 

_Thank you for the mercy you showed my father. I imagine it was not a popular decision but I hope his research on your behalf will make up for what he attempted to do._

_I wish to make one last request. It wouldn’t be a difficult one to fulfill. Dorian was like a brother to me. Please take care of him. I fear for his safety. He does not make things easy for himself and needs someone to watch his back._

_Don’t break his heart. He’s been through enough._

_Be well, Inquisitor._

_Felix Alexius_

 

Maxwell reads it again, and again, and then a fourth time. With each pass, he comes away with more questions about Dorian and whatever Felix is implying while giving nothing away. Dorian said he left Tevinter to right terrible wrongs but Felix gives the impression that something else happened before he left. What else did Dorian say about his departure from Tevinter? Maxwell wracks his mind but the memories are all muddled, conversations lost to time.

Should he ask? Or will that make Dorian suspicious? Felix hid his letter in a book meant for Maxwell’s collection, meaning this is something Dorian would rather keep secret. After what happened with Fairbanks, Maxwell doesn’t want to ambush him with questions. He’ll wait for Dorian to tell him, _if_ he decides he wants to break his silence on a matter Maxwell isn’t supposed to know about.

He reads the letter again. _Don’t break his heart._ How did Felix know? Did Dorian tell him, or did he see something back at Redcliffe?

Maxwell won’t breathe a word of the letter’s contents but he needs to see Dorian anyway. Four days should be enough time to recover from the Emerald Graves, and they still have a conversation to finish. Maybe that will shed some light on what Felix wishes of him. He folds the piece of paper and tucks it back in the gilded pages before leaving his quarters.

He enters the library tower’s atrium and spots Solas leaning on his desk, staring up at the fresco with a strange expression. The apostate glances at him and straightens himself.

“Inquisitor. I believe now is a good time to discuss the anchor.”

Maxwell inwardly grimaces. He’d forgotten about the other unfinished conversation so of course Solas wants to discuss what transpired in the woods right now. He looks up at Dorian’s alcove and then at the apostate.

“I agree. Did anyone tell you what happened?”

“I made conjectures based on the residual magic coming from the anchor but no, the only witnesses have stayed silent despite my questioning. But if you want to understand how it came to be, you’ll need to tell me everything.”

“I don’t actually remember most of it,” he admits. He resists the urge to press his hand to his side; there’s a tender tangled knot of scars where the Red Templar stabbed him, a tactile reminder of how close he came to death and what saved him. “Cole saw everything.”

“Then we should ask him,” Solas says and turns to leave.

Maxwell looks over his shoulder while following Solas out of the atrium. Dorian is leaning on the rail, watching, but turns when Leliana approaches. They then disappear from view.

Cole is sitting on the rail on the top floor of the Herald’s Rest, feet swinging back and forth while watching the people down below. Few wander up to this floor so there’s guaranteed privacy while they discuss what transpired in the Emerald Graves. Cole looks up when Maxwell and Solas approach, head tilted like he’s listening for something.

“You want to know how it happened,” he says softly.

“If you can enlighten us,” Solas says.

Cole’s head turns to Maxwell. “It was so quick. They wanted what you took, took what you wanted, and you couldn’t stop them. You wanted to shout but you were slipping through the cracks. And yet it still heard you. _Have hope. I am here now._ ”

“A spirit of hope came to you,” Solas says, eyebrows arching upward. “That is… unusual.”

“You were running out of time,” Cole says. “You wanted a chance, hope for more. Hope came.”

Maxwell shivers, face warming at the words. They’re familiar, if spoken months ago, and not meant for outside ears. Cole seems to understand. Instead of elaborating in his cryptic way, he says, “Hope renewed you. Hope gave you a chance. Don’t let it slip away again.”

“I won’t,” Maxwell says. He glances warily at Solas, wondering if the apostate is reading between the words. “Why didn’t it stay after it possessed me? Why did it go back?”

“It didn’t want to stay,” Cole says simply. “Everything was so loud, so bright. How can you be in a place like this?” He looks at the anchor. “But you are already so bright. If they look too long, they’ll only see spots. Eyes shut while fumbling for the door. It’s not always there but sometimes it is.”

“The reason why you are not under threat of possession, perhaps,” Solas muses. “But the more times you use the anchor to open rifts, the more easily spirits and demons can find you even if they can’t directly approach you.” His mouth turns into a flat, thoughtful line. “The anchor is also the reason why you were aware of my dream. I doubt it’ll be the last time. When you find yourself in such a situation, your will is your greatest defense. Steel your mind to protect yourself as a mage would.”

He learned how to withstand the punishing pace of battle, how to pace himself so that he can emerge from a prolonged fight alive, but this? How does he keep himself safe for the next time he falls into someone else’s dream? For the next time his dreams rise up to devour him? For the next time templars try to kill Dorian and he reacts by dragging demons out of the Fade?

Solas speaks as though he was reading Maxwell’s thoughts. “Dreamers like myself can draw in others, intentionally or not. My attempt to visit Haven from this distance must’ve drawn you in and you could not fight it because you didn’t know. Do not to follow every path that opens before you, Inquisitor. You may encounter something at the end that even I cannot fight.”

He has no idea what Solas is saying but he nods anyway. He flexes his hand, feeling the magic thrum around his knuckles. “Do you think this could happen again? That another spirit would come through the rift because of me?”

“I think not. Spirits of hope have no interest in leaving the Fade. As I said, it is highly unusual. Nothing short of a powerful summoning spell or an extraordinary event can convince them to leave, even for a moment.”

But Maxwell knows why it found him. He stands in the atrium of the library tower a half-hour later, looking up at the second floor. Voices drift down from it - Fiona and Helisma, discussing research; Leliana’s agents trading stories and recommending books to read during the downtime; and ravens cawing while entering and leaving the rookery above him. He hopes Dorian is still in his alcove because they need to talk - about what happened in the Emerald Graves and on the way there.

The mage is standing near the bookcases, a letter in hand. He keeps rocking back and forth on his feet, eyes glued to the words, and doesn’t acknowledge Maxwell’s approach. From a distance, Maxwell sees a wax seal at the bottom of the letter and wonders if it’s from Tevinter. Felix again? So soon after sending those shipments and his secret request?

The floor creaks with his next step and Dorian looks up. He smiles but he has to try and his eyes are red.

“From an acquaintance,” he says. “Felix passed a week after sending those books. He… insisted that everything that once belonged to him and Alexius be given to the Inquisition. Duels were had. He won.”

“I thought he couldn’t use magic,” Maxwell says instead of, “I’m sorry.”

 _I wish to make one last request,_ Felix had written in his shaking hand. _Please take care of him. Don’t break his heart. He’s been through enough._

“Just because he can’t doesn’t mean someone can’t fight for him.” Dorian sighs and folds the letter to slide inside his robes. His eyes are distant as he leans against the bookcases. “We have a friend in the Magisterium. _Her_ magic is formidable. Could give mine a run for the money.”

Maxwell raises an eyebrow.

“Fine. She can probably destroy me in seconds. Point is, Magister Tilani is offering to help now that Felix is… now that he’s gone. She has ears where the Inquisition doesn’t but don’t tell your spymaster that. She’s handling all the arrangements to keep others away, especially those that may have Venatori sympathies and are aware of the extent of Alexius’s involvement.”

“So she knows.”

He nods. “I warned her. She’ll name names, watch where the money and people go. I asked if she could find any records of an altus named Calpernia.”

“Right, a Venatori leader.” He’d nearly forgotten about that name from the Crestwood missives.

Dorian sighs again. “I know why you’re here but I’m afraid I’ll have to postpone our… talk. Not really feeling up to it today.”

“All right.” Then, tentatively, “Do you need anything?”

“Me? No, not at the moment. I’m fine. I’ll be fine. But I would like to be alone, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Maxwell says and leaves the tower.

* * *

 _He wrenches away just before the templar plunges its lyrium-crusted hands into his chest_ and sits up with a sharp gasp. He curls into himself, breathing harshly, hands clutching the back of his head. His nails drag against the nape of his neck, hard enough to hurt, and he knows it wasn’t real. No templars slaughtered the camp, pinning him down to make him watch his friends die. No templars reached Skyhold and massacred the Inquisition’s beating heart. 

Several heavy seconds later, he realizes the pounding in his ear is the pounding on the door. He lifts his head and looks across the room at the low fire in the fireplace, then at the deep night sky through the windows. The flames halfheartedly flare while he stumbles out of bed, pulls a shirt over his head, and nearly trips down the steps to the door.

He expects another of Leliana’s runners, perhaps with news from Stroud or the agents sent to shadow the Warden. He opens the door and instead stares up at the Iron Bull.

“What….”

The rest of his question dies on the tip of his tongue when the Qunari ducks inside and gestures to Krem behind him. Krem has no trouble dragging an unconscious Dorian in and up the stairs. Maxwell stares after them, not at all understanding what is happening in front of him this late at night. He shuts the door and follows them up.

“What happened?” he asks while Krem deposits Dorian on the couch. Dorian immediately turns his back on them and curls around a fat pillow.

“He got drunk, that’s what,” Krem says. “Never took him for a rowdy one. Chief?”

“You go on, Krem,” the Iron Bull says, cocking his head towards the stairs. “I’ll see you and the others in a bit.”

“Sure thing.” Krem nods to Maxwell. “Your Worship.”

The Iron Bull waits until after the door shuts before asking, “Someone in the family die?”

“A friend, actually.” He looks at Dorian again when the mage mutters muffled nonsense into the pillow. “Said he wanted to be alone. Did Krem say ‘rowdy’?”

“Belligerent is a better word. He’s not very good at being a drunk all by himself,” the Iron Bull says. “Came up to me asking what my intentions really were. Hands started glowing until Skinner shoved a pint in them.”

“Intentions?”

“You know,” the Iron Bull says and waits. So does Maxwell. “The joking? The banter? I tease him and he puffs up like an angry jungle bird? Come on, I know you know.”

It takes a few more seconds for things to click. “Bull… were you flirting with him? Was that what you were doing?”

The Iron Bull mutters disbelievingly in Qunlat. “Krem’s never hearing about this. Like wow, was I that… no, never mind.” He shakes his head and drags a hand down his face. “It was harmless, but I know when to stop. Not risking a big ball of magic to the face.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, you know. He was drunk, had some choice words for me, kept saying he’s not ‘available’, nearly fried my face off. You should give Maryden a raise for roping in the entire tavern for a couple songs, kept them from looking around. Couldn’t hear my own thoughts. Then Krem passed him some more ale and he fell asleep.”

Maxwell tries not to visibly cringe while imagining what sort of accusations Maryden was drowning out with her singing. His smile is brittle, mortified. “Guess I’ll make that recommendation to Morris tomorrow. So, um, why did you - you brought him here because?”

“I have an eye as well as a pair of ears and a lifetime of know-how. Ben-Hassrath, Boss. I know.” He looks pointedly between Maxwell and Dorian, and Maxwell realizes he’s been edging in front of the mage’s sleeping body in some useless attempt to shield him from scrutiny. “He’ll be fine. Can’t say the same for his pride. And if he starts asking - tell him I’ll stop messing with him and to watch his drink.”

Maxwell huffs at that. “Thanks, Bull.”

“Anytime.” The Iron Bull clasps a very heavy hand on his shoulder and heads downstairs.

Maxwell waits until after the door shuts before going to Dorian’s side. The mage is fast asleep, stinking of ale. He reaches over to do… something, and the anchor casts the older man in an eerie green glow. He then remembers what Cole said about the rift in the Emerald Graves and quickly takes his hand back. Fear eats at him, hollowing him out as he recalls the grotesque templar standing over Dorian’s bleeding body and his inability to fight back. 

_“You wanted a chance, hope for more. Hope came.”_

But at what cost?

He returns to his bed and curls up on his side, back to the couch, staring out at the night sky and listening to Dorian’s even breathing while his thoughts pull themselves inside out.

“... doing here. Who reads this dreck - who decided to _publish_ this? They’ll put anything in print just to sell the - no, this Chantry sister can go _right_ here….”

Maxwell blinks rapidly and then squeezes his eyes shut against the blinding sunlight streaming in. Something heavy hits the floor and he quickly sits up. Dorian is sitting at his desk and going through the bookcases, resorting the texts he found suitable and tossing others onto the floor. His hair sticks up in all directions and his robes are a mass of unsightly creases but he thinks very little of his appearance, if at all.

“What… are you doing?” Maxwell asks, bewildered, in a hoarse voice.

“Organizing your sad excuse of a library,” Dorian says and tosses another book. “Maker, your Chantry really enjoys selling itself. We’ll put this here instead.”

“You gave me some of those books.”

“Yes, they are on the shelf right here,” Dorian says, patting the spines of the ones that will be at eye level when Maxwell sits at the desk, “but half of these didn’t go through my exacting - just how many Genitivi do you have?”

“All of them?”

“Also, you need to figure out how to get me out of here without anyone noticing. Who brought me in here? Bull? Was this his idea of a joke? Does he know how it would look-”

“Dorian.”

The mage turns around to stare at him with baleful bloodshot eyes. Somehow he doesn’t look any less appealing, a considerable feat. “I’d rather not have this conversation until after I refresh myself and forget what I did last night.”

“Which one first?” Maxwell asks. “Do you remember any of it?”

“Just enough to regret existing,” Dorian says, ignoring the first question. “If I said anything incriminating, he’ll hold it over my head forever and I wouldn’t even remember uttering it. Stupid of me. Stupid, foolish-”

“He isn’t going to say anything,” Maxwell says and Dorian abruptly stops muttering. “He knows when he’s gone too far.”

“Is that so?” He relaxes a little, shoulders slumping. “Well that still doesn’t solve the problem of me being here the whole night. What would people say if they saw me leaving your quarters this early in the day? In this state?”

Maxwell fiddles with his hands, flushing at the thought. “Is it that bad?”

“Don’t tell me you had a parade of people going in and out of your bed back home.”

He chokes and coughs hard. “No, that’s - it wasn’t - no, I didn’t.” Then, “That was my brother. Father wasn’t pleased.”

“They never are,” Dorian says darkly and turns back to the books. “Could say I came here early with another book for your perusal. Enough people know the habit and that nightwatch captain is the discrete sort. I like her.”

“Me, too. But if that’s what you want to sell, you should probably look the part.”

“ _Kaffas_. You have a point.” Dorian drags a hand through his hair in an unsuccessful attempt to tame it and stalks over to the washbowl and pitcher on the dresser next to the bed.

Maxwell watches him heat the water until steam rises from it. “That’s handy.”

“One of the perks of being a mage,” Dorian says lightly. “The thought of having to wait for water to boil makes me shrivel up inside.”

“That’s how everyone else lives,” Maxwell points out and the mage grimaces.

“A point. Seems I have trouble filtering my thoughts today. Must be the drink and the unpleasant surprise that presented itself to me when I woke.”

“Unpleasant?” Maxwell asks mildly.

Dorian groans. “Not what I meant. Let’s not say another word until after I wash the sleep away.”

Maxwell watches him splash water on his face and neck and dampen his unruly hair. Maxwell’s still waking up, too, and as the minutes pass he becomes more and more aware of exactly what Dorian is fretting over and what it could mean for them both. One doesn’t need to be sharp to cast aspersions based on what they saw - the Inquisition’s Tevinter mage emerging from the Inquisitor’s quarters at a suspiciously early hour. And if he learned anything from Varric and Josephine, it only takes a few choice words and an eager gossip to shift impressions and opinions of those who don’t know better.

And yet he can’t muster up the concern or panic. He watches Dorian push and pull at his wrinkled robes, watches him crinkle his nose while sniffing the stained fabric and mutter to himself while trying to wash it out, and wishes they could have more mornings like this. Maxwell used to never pay attention to them but ever since the mage-templar war reached Ostwick, he found he missed the quiet hours, the morning calm as he followed a routine to prepare himself for the world beyond the door. It’s terribly mundane and something he needs as his life slips out of control.

“This should pass muster,” Dorian decides while preening in front of a small ornate mirror next to the washbowl, a gift from Vivienne. “And the book that trainer of yours told you to get should be here in a matter of hours. According to your spymaster, it’s difficult to obtain due to its… ‘scandalous and gruesome nature’ but she always knows how to pull through.”

“I know,” Maxwell says. “She was the Left Hand and helped stop the Fifth Blight, remember?”

“How could I forget exactly how many esteemed and powerful people congregated under one roof,” Dorian says smartly. “Speaking of which, I believe I’m due for a meeting with one of them within the hour.”

“Who?”

“Your advisor in all things rebel Circle mages.”

“Enchanter Fiona? Why?” he asks while the mage strides away to sweep up the discarded books. His hopes of finishing a discussion that began in the Emerald Graves sinks faster by the second. “Dorian-”

“I know,” Dorian says with a heavy sigh. “But I promised to discuss certain theories and practices with her to help her mages prepare to the Venatori. That Barris fellow might join as well. You could… come by later, if you wish.”

“I have to train with Thram,” Maxwell says. He rubs his eyes. “Guess we’ll have to talk later.”

“We will, I promise.”

Dorian heads for the stairs, books under his arm. He stops mid-stride and turns around to go back to Maxwell’s side. He leans in and kisses Maxwell, quick and bitter and damp and warm, smiles apologetically, and leaves the tower. Maxwell remains sitting in bed for another five minutes, flustered and wishing Dorian didn’t have reason to leave so quickly.

* * *

 _A Path of Warning and Harsh Promises_ is less a book or even a training manual and more a collection of accounts and essays on the history and ways of the reaver. They speak of a dragon’s power and wrath, of the ferocity of her vengeance against trespassers and assailants, of the raw primal force that reavers seek to internalize and harness. Maxwell has encountered three high dragons in his twenty-three years, two from afar and one up close, and when he wasn’t terrified for his life he was in awe of their sheer power, of the ease with which they shaped the world around them. He knows why they were inspiration for warriors seeking more.

The book, however, says nothing of techniques, maneuvers, forms, and footwork. He wonders why.

“The way of the reaver is a way of living, thinking, breathing,” Thram tells him after a particularly punishing training session. They’re both leaning against the fence, breathing harshly and wiping rivulets of sweat from their brows. “Do not worry yourself with how you’re supposed to move, how your opponent moves, where your feet go and what her shoulders tell you. What you want to embrace comes from within. It will express itself without thought so _stop_ thinking.”

“Won’t that come to me after I slay a dragon?” he asks. 

“Her blood requires the right vessel to contain it,” the elf replies. “I am breaking you in so that you do not shatter when you take her into you. Why else do you think that is my title? Now pick up your sword, Inquisitor. A reaver does not rest until the last foe is dead.”

He bites back a groan and grabs his training sword.

Cassandra finds him hours later, sitting under a tree next to the training grounds with the book in his lap, trying to ignore the painful throbbing all over his bruised body while he reads. She leans on her sword and looks down at him; her face is flushed from exertion and sweat sticks her hair to her forehead. He wonders how he missed her out on the grounds.

“So it really is true.”

“What is?” he asks.

“Your decision to train under that breaker and become a reaver.” Cassandra pulls her gloves off and tucks them under her arms. She starts pacing in front of him while massaging her hands, her brow furrowed in thought. “Be careful, Inquisi - Trevelyan. I know about reavers. I know what dragon blood can do.”

“How do you know?” he asks curiously, closing the book.

“Dragon hunters were once revered in Nevarra and the Pentaghasts were the most famous. Many became reavers, using dragon’s blood to help them slay the beasts. The hunters were successful, won fame and fortune, and then went mad.”

“All of them?” he asks doubtfully. A passage from _Flame and Scale_ comes to mind.

“It was their own doing,” the Seeker says. “Some were never satisfied with just a taste. They became greedy, mad with desire for more. But the more blood they used, the more it… changed them. Physically, they grew scales and horns, started become more dragon than man. The rage they used to defeat dragons and their enemies consumed them, driving them to commit unspeakable things to their families and allies. They lost their humanity.”

Maxwell feels ill. “Is that true?”

“I don’t know. These are tales from hundreds of years ago. They are most likely exaggerated, but there are reasons why they exist.”

 _“All stories start somewhere, no?”_ Leliana had said while telling him a story of King Calenhad..

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

“No. I only want to tell you what I know given my family history. You made your choice. I may not approve but I respect it.” Cassandra pauses, then smiles wryly. “Besides, you have friends here to knock you upside the head if you should start getting greedy, though I don’t know what’ll happen to us all if you grow horns and wings….”

He laughs lowly and shakes his head while tension trickles out. “With friends like you, I wouldn’t have to worry at all.”

“If anyone’s a match for dragon’s blood, it would be you. You are more resilient than you think, and I’m not just talking about all the times you should’ve died but didn’t.”

“Did something happen this morning? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you praise anyone like that before.”

She scowls. “Fine. Go pick up a sword and meet me in the ring. Then we’ll see if you deserve it.”

Maxwell groans at the mere thought of standing on his aching feet. “Can we wait until I can walk again? I can barely feel my legs.”

“I know. I was watching. This Thram, I hope she doesn’t get it into her head to actually break you into pieces. We need the Inquisitor intact.”

“This is all to have me ready for the blood she wants me to drink,” Maxwell says. He sounds uncertain to his own ears. “Is it really that potent?”

“Like blood magic,” Cassandra says, “but without the demons. Reavers do not kill other people to gain power nor do they transform into abominations.”

“Then what was all that talk about growing horns and scales?”

She huffs and rolls her eyes. “Consider it instead a cautionary tale of what happens when anyone desires too much power.” She picks up her sword and turns to leave. She hesitates and turns back around. “I should tell you that Leliana has been helping me search for other Seekers. Even after all these months, we have heard nothing of Lord Seeker Lucius. What troubles me, however, is that none of the other Seekers have reached out to me.”

“None? But they know where you are and why.”

“Which makes their silence all the more suspicious. I think something has been happening to them. It’s the only explanation I have for Therinfal. Barris saw Lucius there but not in the last weeks before they marched on Haven. Either the Red Templars did something to Lucius and the other Seekers or….” She prods the ground with her sword, lips pressed tightly. “Or he knew what was happening all this time.”

“You think the Lord Seeker was working with Corypheus?” He remembers the man breaking ties with the Chantry and shaming Cassandra for choosing to forge the new Inquisition. Back then, they had thought him unreasonably stubborn. But after Therinfal, after what Barris and Cole said about the red lyrium, it was no longer out of the realm of possibility. “But he’s the _Lord Seeker_ -”

“I hope it’s not the case,” she says, “but I must be prepared for anything. For now, I wait. Leliana and Josephine are searching for them. Hopefully they’ll find something.”

“For your sake, at least,” Maxwell says.

“Thank you, Trevelyan.”

* * *

Despite promising again and again to make time, Dorian finds ways to avoid talking about what Maxwell overheard in the Dales. Maxwell waits as patiently as he can after seeing how hard Dorian took Felix’s death, but the third week is passing without word from the mage and that patience is wearing thin. Something about that morning had spooked the Dorian and he keeps making himself sparse whenever Maxwell enters the library tower. Maxwell can’t catch him at night either; Thram’s an effective if brutal trainer and Maxwell can’t drag himself out of bed at a late hour for any reason.

He doesn’t know what to do and has no one to talk to about it.

Except maybe Captain Katarin.

“Ser,” she says slowly after he tells her one night. “In my experience, people like him are a fearful people.”

“That’s the last thing I’d say about him,” Maxwell mutters, scuffing the floor with his boot.

“It has also been my experience that these people have more to hide than most. Some would say he’s overcompensating for an imagined lack of character. Not that I’d go that far. It just sounds like… like he’s afraid of something. Talk to him about it. Ser.”

Maxwell sighs and buries his face in his hands. “I know. I’m trying.”

“Then just try again,” she says and awkwardly pats his arm. “Now if you’ll excuse me. I have a fortress to patrol.”

He doesn’t get the chance.

At another meeting with the advisors, Fiona informs him of a request to slay a certain high dragon, the last thing he needs to do in order to become a reaver.

“Arl Teagan has… requested the services of the Inquisition,” she says, looking pained. “He believes he is owed a favor for all the trouble my people caused.”

“It’s not more mage cells, is it?” Maxwell asks suspiciously.

“No, Inquisitor.” Fiona smiles grimly. “He has a high dragon problem. A Frostback nesting in Lady Shayna’s Valley. Leliana says you already encountered her?”

One does not easily forget the great fiery wings sweeping through the air and the roar shaking the very earth, toppling stone and stirring up the Frostback’s hungry young. He and the others had beaten a hasty retreat because no one was under any illusions that they could face a highly territorial dragon with young and live.

Now Arl Teagan is asking the Inquisition to slay her, as a favor. Even Leliana is staring at Fiona.

“The arl does not forget,” Josephine says delicately, “and he is the king’s uncle. One does not ignore such a request.”

“But a _high dragon_? Maker’s breath, how is that a reasonable thing to ask of anyone?” Cullen mutters.

“I’ve helped slay a dragon before,” Leliana says, “but it was entirely voluntary. Asking that of the Inquisition….”

“Perhaps he recalled your exploits and thought you could lend a hand,” Josephine points out and the spymaster scoffs.

“Not without her and Alistair around.” Leliana looks sharply at Maxwell. “However, Thram says you must fight a high dragon to complete your training. It seems we can kill two birds with one stone.”

“With a giant dragon, more like,” Cullen mutters. “All right. I’ll send the order and prepare for travel.”

“I do apologize for this,” Fiona says after the others leave the drafty room. She’s staring at the Ferelden half of Josephine’s map, mouth twisted like she drank a jar of fermented fish sauce. “Dragons are truly formidable creatures. They would lay waste to all before them and reshape the world as they desire.”

“Do you think he’s actually expecting us to come kill the dragon?” Maxwell asks.

“I should hope the arl is sensible enough to understand the enormity of his request.” She suddenly smirks, dark eyes bright with mischief. “But if you do manage to slay her, I’d love to see the look on his face.”

Maxwell walks past Josephine at her desk, already writing a letter that’s probably destined for an arl in the Hinterlands. He enters the noisy crowded main hall, thinking of how to best inform the others of their impending task. He should also find Thram and tell her he has his high dragon. 

Varric isn’t at the table by the fireplace, which means he’s probably down at the Herald’s Rest. Maxwell reaches for the library door and then Mother Giselle calls out to him. 

“Your Worship,” she says, moving around a quartet of gaudily dressed visitors to his side. She dips her head and gestures in the direction of the herbal garden. “There is something I wish to discuss with you.”

They already have plenty of privacy here in the hall, a contradictory but true statement; voices clutter the air and all words turn to a dull roar, a shelter for the more private conversations that don’t already have Leliana’s ear. Still, he follows the revered mother outside to the garden, where silence is the buffer against eavesdroppers. No one would dare listen to whatever the Inquisitor and Skyhold’s revered mother are discussing. 

“What is it, Mother Giselle?” he asks once she decides to stand in the shade of a small stand of birch near the gazebo.

She opens her mouth but two people are crossing the garden grounds, agents discussing their latest assignment. They’re gone as quickly as they arrive, sparing no glances at anyone around them. Once they’ve vanished up the steps to the battlements, she says, “I have some news regarding one of your… companions. The Tevinter.”

Dorian? He frowns, and then again at her reluctance to name him. “Mother Giselle, he’s been with us for _months_.”

She grimaces. “Forgive me. I have news regarding Dorian Pavus. His family contacted me recently by letter from Qarinus. Are you familiar with them?”

“He… rarely speaks of them,” Maxwell says, already uneasy with this conversation’s direction. Dorian said very little about his parents and home; when it came to Tevinter, he only ever spoke of Felix and how much he wanted to save his homeland from its corrupted self. “What do they want?”

Mother Giselle sighs wearily. “They say they are estranged from their son and wrote to me pleading for my aid in the matter. They have not seen nor heard from him in years, and wish to arrange a meeting.”

“‘Estranged.’” He was expecting a death in the family. “Did they say why? Does Dorian know they want to see him?”

“They did not elaborate. And no, I have not told him about the letter. They asked for the meeting to be arranged without his knowing. They fear it’s the only way he’ll come.”

Caution prickles at the back of his mind. Maxwell doesn’t need Josephine to explain why House Pavus’s attempt to circumvent the Inquisitions normal lines of communication should rouse suspicion. What are they trying to hide or avoid? Why is Mother Giselle asking him for assistance instead of warning him? 

“What do you want from me, Revered Mother?”

She considers his hardening tone. “Since you appear to be in good terms with him, I hope you could convince him to go meet them.”

“You don’t find it suspicious that they want you to lie to him? They write to you, asking to take him somewhere far from Skyhold to meet them without his knowing. Does that sound right to you?”

She twitches. “No, it does not. But I could not ignore a father’s plea for assistance. I do not know what befell their house to cause such an estrangement, nor do I believe it to be my place to ask. I only wish to give a desperate family a chance to reconcile with their wayward son. Is that such a terrible thing?”

It would be the right thing to do under any other circumstance, but Maxwell can’t stop thinking about Dorian’s utter silence regarding his immediate family. He only spoke about Felix and Alexius and offered no stories of his own when Maxwell talked about his family. There’s a reason for that, he’s sure of it.

“No, but that’s not enough for me. Why do they want to reach out to him now and not before?”

“They do not understand why he’s with the Inquisition. They fear for his well-being, as all parents are wont to do, and want him to come home.”

“What?” Alarm and dread coil around his lungs and squeeze. He tries to breathe, to keep his composure, to not demand answers of the revered mother. Did she detest Dorian’s presence that much? Did she really think it was in the Inquisition’s best interest to send one of its most powerful mages back to Tevinter? “Is that why you’re helping arrange this meeting?”

“I only wish to help a family that cannot talk to their son,” Mother Giselle says with infinite patience. “He is your friend. Would you not want this for him? To help him and his family reconcile and heal from whatever caused the rift would unburden their hearts and give him a clear conscience. Is that not the better way?”

“I….” 

She notices him wavering and presses the matter. “They are remorseful for what happened and wish to make amends, yet he has spurned their every attempt. Yes, this was not their first attempt to reach him and I wish this to be their last, for both their sakes. Convince him to meet them, Your Worship. Have them make peace. Surely that is the better way.”

 _Don’t break his heart. He’s been through enough._

Is this what Felix meant? Did he know what transpired between Dorian and his parents? Did he know that they would try to reach out to him? Did Felix warn Dorian, too, with a secret letter hidden somewhere in those old Tevinter books?

“If any good can come of this, should we not try?” Mother Giselle asks softly.

Dorian didn’t say anything about his parents for a reason, Maxwell decides. He disparages his homeland loudly and emphatically enough times for Maxwell to know he wouldn’t hold back if he had any grievances about his own family. What happened in Qarinus that kept Dorian silent? 

“I’m not tricking him into meeting his parents,” Maxwell says. “He needs to know.”

“And if he decides not to go? What will anyone gain in the end? His family knows him best. They understand that this… deceit is the only chance they have of seeing him again. It may hurt him but it may ultimately help. Would you take away that chance?”

“This isn’t fair to him either.”

She sighs. “They are aware. They have already taken measures in case things do not go as well as hoped. A retainer will be waiting at the tavern in Redcliffe Village in the Hinterlands. If he agrees to meet them, the retainer will take him onward but if not, the matter ends there and they will return to Tevinter.” Mother Giselle withdraws a letter from the hidden folds of her robes. “I pray you change your mind, Your Worship. Here is the last letter I received. Perhaps it will persuade you as it did me.”

She pats his arm awkwardly before leaving him in the garden. He looks down at the letter clutched tightly in his trembling hand, at the broken wax seal impressed with an unfamiliar crest. He unfolds it, reads the carefully measured script, and then tucks it under his arm while returning to the keep. Someone calls out to him and the gilded Orlesians listening rapturously to Varric by the fireplace turn as one to see the Inquisitor breeze by into the library tower.

Dorian is in another alcove, browsing the titles on a shelf while holding three in his arms. Maxwell watches from the top of the stairs, wondering what Dorian will say. How he’ll react to the news. What he’ll do. Maxwell takes a deep breath and approaches, heart thudding in his head.

“Dorian,” he says, “there’s a letter you need to see.”

The mage hums and turns to him, smiling slyly. “A letter? Is it a naughty one? A humorous proposal from, say, an Antivan dowager? Do I need to draw diagrams-”

“Actually, it’s from your father.”

As soon as he speaks, he knows he was right to be suspicious. Dorian stiffens, mouth snapping shut and face going impossibly pale. Slowly, he places the books on a cluttered table and holds out his hand. “Let me see that.”

Maxwell hands it over and skirts around Dorian when the mage strides back to his alcove. Dorian skims the letter as he walks, eyebrows knitting together and a frown deepening on his face as he reaches the end of it. Once they’re ensconced in his private corner, he turns on Maxwell.

“‘I know him’? What my father knows of me would barely fill a thimble. This is just so typical! For all I know, this so-called ‘retainer’ is a henchman hired to knock me on the head and drag me back to Tevinter!”

Maxwell flinches. “Would he actually do that?”

Dorian scoffs, then seems to catch himself. “No… but I wouldn’t put it past him.” More quietly, he says, “And I thought…. no, of course, _of course_ he would do this.” He looks sharply at Maxwell. “Where did you get the letter?”

Maxwell shifts uneasily, unsure if naming names is the best thing to do when confronted by a very angry mage. “Dorian-”

“On second thought, I’m going to have words with that revered mother about meddling into people’s private affairs. Who does she think she is? I-”

“She didn’t start this. Your family contacted her first. They said they wanted to talk but you refused.”

“And I would keep refusing but it seems I no longer have a choice,” Dorian says and _burns the letter_. It goes up in a bright flash and ash falls at his feet. “Let’s go. If this turns out to be a trap, we’ll just have to kill everyone and run. You’re good at that. If not, I’m sending this ‘family retainer’ back with a message that my father can stick his alarm in his ‘wit’s end’. Now, where am I supposed to meet this man?”

“The Gull and Lantern at Redcliffe. We’re already going to the Hinterlands - Arl Teagan asked us to kill a high dragon nesting in the Hinterlands as a favor.”

Dorian laughs mockingly. “Just like that? Nothing’s ever dull around you, is it?”

Maxwell smiles tentatively but there’s no humor in Dorian’s eyes. “Guess not.” He watches the mage shift restlessly, shoulders stiff, braced, jaw clenching too tightly. He’s seen it before. Felt it, too. “There... seems to be bad blood between you and your family.”

Dorian looks at him in surprise and then laughs once, mockingly. “Interesting turn of phrase.” He sobers immediately, frowning at himself, and then sighs. “I suppose I should explain myself. The first and only thing you should know about my family is that they’re not happy with my choices, nor I theirs.”

Maxwell thinks of the letter, of Mother Giselle’s words, of Felix’s. “What choices? Leaving Tevinter and joining the Inquisition?”

“That, too.” Dorian sounds melancholic, tired, as he says, “And here I was, hoping they wouldn’t bother. Foolish of me to think that. I’m their only son. Of course they want me to return home.”

“Are you?” Maxwell asks.

He must’ve sounded uncertain, fearful. Dorian kisses him once, hard, uncaring of their surroundings. “No. My place is here, which is why we’re going to see that retainer and put an end to this once and for all.”

“Just say the word.”

Dorian does so in the evening, catching Maxwellat the armory well after one last training session with Thram. There’s a storm brewing about the mage, prickling the air, and everybody else gets out of his way.

“What is it?” Maxwell asks, wiping cold water from his face.

“I’m ready to go,” Dorian declares.

He keeps glancing over his shoulder and looking around the courtyard, watching the Iron Bull laugh while Cassandra tries to one-up him with wooden shields. Maxwell follows his gaze to Cullen leaning on the battlements above the gatehouse, watching all of Skyhold, and Sera tracing obscene shapes in the dust on her windows. Even Solas is outside, watching the setting sun on the wall next to the large tower.

When Maxwell looks at him again, Dorian is still canvassing the fortress. That _is_ what he’s doing, isn’t it? He’s watching for anything that seems out of place, for any suspicious faces, anything that could tip him off to his family’s intentions. A chill prickles up Maxwell’s spine: _Your afraid._ What if he wasn’t lying about the retainer or his family’s desire to bring him back to Tevinter? Would Maxwell have to fight them to keep Dorian here in the south?

_“That was his choice to make, not yours.”_

Fiona’s cold reprimand still echoes in his head and he wishes he didn’t have to make any decision at all.

* * *

Dorian jumps at every suspicious rustling in the underbrush, at anyone who tries to talk to him without warning. He speaks curtly to the others, short words with none of his dramatic flair, and never lets his mount wander away. He tries to, anyway.

“I swear,” he mutters while tugging futilely at the mare’s reins. “If I have to light a fire under you to get back on the road-”

The Bog Unicorn raises its grotesque head and the mare bulls her way back within the ranks, quelling Dorian’s complaints. Nobody else turns a hair; they were all told Dorian has a personal matter to settle and nobody’s forgotten what happened the last time Tevinter had business in Redcliffe. Aside from some light-hearted teasing from Varric, they leave him alone.

The nights are worse. Whatever reservations Dorian had about staying in the Inquisitor’s tent evaporated; he always slips inside after Maxwell and sets a ward at the entrance as if it’ll stop an imaginary assailant from simply slashing the canvas sides open to get in. The third night Dorian does this, Maxwell suggests that he might be taking things a little too far.

“I’m not risking anything,” the mage says, finality in his tone.

““What do you think they’ll do? How would they do it? We’re in the middle of camp, surrounded by everybody else. No one’s going to attack us. You’re safe.”

“You don’t know that,” Dorian replies and summons a wisp. “I’ll keep watch.”

He stares incredulously. “You can’t be serious-”

“Don’t. Not tonight. Not until we deal with that retainer,” Dorian says stiffly. The air in the tent suddenly bristles with magic and the wisp pulses brightly. “Not until I’m sure they’re not coming back.”

There is no convincing him. Maxwell sighs and curls up on his side, facing the mage. “All right.” He watches Dorian for a minute, then says, “You could’ve said something before, instead of letting this sneak up on you. Could’ve asked Leliana for help.”

Dorian sighs heavily and bows his head. “I wanted to believe it was all behind me. A fresh start, one would say.”

“Chasing Alexius and Felix here to stop the Venatori is your idea of a fresh start?”

“It’s a better use of my time and talents, don’t you think?” Dorian smiles tiredly at him. “I’ll answer any questions you have once this is over. I promise.”

It goes like this for seven more days and nights until they’re deep in the Hinterlands. The Fereldan heartland is noticeably more peaceful, but the scars are still there in the hills and valleys, in the burned husks of houses and the skeletons of funeral pyres for the victims of war. Soldiers, both Inquisition and Fereldan, salute as he passes by, and the people still living here flock to watch, to point and whisper.

“What is the Herald doing here? Is something happening?”

“Dragon, mayhaps? Heard the beast’s been troubling the arl.”

“Then why didn’t he call on the king?”

Corporal Vale, still stationed at the Crossroads, hails him with a smile. “Your Worship! I was told the Inquisition was to slay the Frostback. Wasn’t expecting the Inquisitor himself to come but, well, here you are.”

“Any new developments?” Maxwell asks patiently.

“No, all is well minus the occasional templars and Venatori but we know how to deal with them. Oh, and the smugglers.”

“Smugglers?” Cassandra asks.

“Near Lake Luthias, Seeker,” Corporal Vale says, pointing in that direction. “No matter how many times we chase them out of there, they come right back in a matter of days.”

“That locked gate,” Varric mutters. “Remember?”

He does. “Thank you, Corporal. We’ll look into it.”

The man steps back and salutes. “Maker guide your steps, Inquisitor.”

Maxwell watches him leave, dispersing curious villagers, refugees, and soldiers as he goes, and then turns to the others. “Should we look into that?”

“Could be your run-of-the-mill smuggling operation,” Varric says, “or it could be lyrium. Worth a look.”

“And the dragon?” the Iron Bull asks.

Maxwell glances at Dorian, who is not paying attention and is instead staring in the direction of Redcliffe Village. “We should split up. Find out everything you can about the Frostback, Bull. We’ll meet at the camp outside the valley in... three days?”

“Sounds good, Boss,” the Qunari replies with an easy smile.

Cassandra, Varric, and Cole stay behind while the others go north and most of the soldiers break away to find their assigned camps throughout the Hinterlands. Solas goes east on his own, saying he wants to observe the old elven artifacts they uncovered here a year ago. Since no one had reported rifts forming anywhere in the Hinterlands in that many months, Maxwell thinks the artifacts are working just fine but he’s not an expert on magic, let alone elven magic.

“I suppose you wish to go to the village alone,” Cassandra tells Dorian.

“I’m coming with,” Maxwell says. “Just in case it’s a trap.”

“As long as nobody whips out more time magic,” Varric says while they turn their horses to the village at the edge of Lake Calenhad.

Maxwell twitches at the memory. Alexius had said that the Breach was the only reason why time magic was possible so no, they shouldn’t expect anything so catastrophic. He looks at Dorian, though, and sees how tightly the mage presses his lips together, how stiffly he holds himself in the saddle. It’s hard to forget sometimes how red lyrium sounded in the dwarf’s voice and eyes.

“Let’s go,” Dorian mutters and urges his horse forward.

* * *

The tavern is empty. Sunlight streams in through the shutters, highlighting golden dust motes that swirl as Maxwell and Dorian enter the Gull and Lantern. Everything is in place, tables and chairs neatly arranged, pints and tankards lined up on the shelves, and a cleaning rag folded on the counter, but nobody is present. Maxwell looks over his shoulder while easing the door shut but still sees nothing out of the ordinary. 

Dorian looks around for the retainer or any signs of life, frown deepening. “Uh oh, nobody’s here. That’s not good.”

As if on cue, the floorboards on the second floor creak. Maxwell nods to the staircase and reaches for the dagger on his belt. The warm still air suddenly prickles with magic as Dorian steps in front of him, hands glowing faintly as he braces for whoever is coming downstairs to meet them. 

An older man steps out of the shadows and throws back his cowl. One glance is all Maxwell needs to know this is not the retainer Dorian’s family said they would send to the tavern. The man and Dorian resemble each other, though the elder Pavus is clean-shaven and inconspicuously dressed. He would look harmless to most people but Maxwell knows how powerful the man really is.

“ _Father_ ,” Dorian says, each syllable measured and hard. “So that letter, the ‘family retainer’, what was that? A smokescreen? A trick? Bait to lure me out like a wild dog?”

The magister Pavus only sighs. “Then you were told.” His dark eyes turn to Maxwell. “Inquisitor Trevelyan. I apologize for the deception. I never intended to involve you in this matter-”

Dorian scoffs, moving back into his father’s line of sight. “Of course not. Magister Pavus couldn’t just come to Skyhold and be seen with the dread Inquisitor. What would people think!” His voice rises. “What _is_ this exactly? Ambush? Kidnapping? Warm family reunion?”

His father is unperturbed by the wild accusations. He says, with all the weight and weariness of the long-suffering, “This is how it has always been.”

But Maxwell is already far away, back to another time and place. He’s been here before, arguing with his own father, by turns furious and desperate, and all he had gotten was a calm cold dismissal and a declaration that he was leaving for the Starkhaven chantry in a matter of days.

The fall of the Ostwick Circle changed all of that. What will change this particular meeting?

“You’ll have to explain,” Maxwell hears himself say and even Dorian looks at him in surprise.

“I am sorry, Inquisitor, but this is a matter between me and my son-”

“No,” Dorian snaps, seizing the chance. “You heard him. He wants the truth. He wants to know why you’re really here. Why don’t you explain yourself?”

His father frowns. “This does not concern the Inquisition-”

“But it does concern _me_ , a very visible member of that Inquisition. If you won’t say it, then I will. And this time we’ll have a witness, someone else to hear the truth.”

The magister’s act vanishes when he flinches. “Dorian, don’t. There’s no need-”

“I prefer the company of men,” Dorian declares, each word loud and precisely spoken. They echo in the empty tavern. “My father disapproves.”

 _This_ is why Dorian’s father tried to lure him out here? The reason why he asked Mother Giselle to lie? “What?”

“Did I stutter?” Dorian stares balefully at the magister as he continues. “Men, and the company thereof. As in sex. Surely you’ve heard of it.”

Magister Pavus is stricken by the declaration. Maxwell knows of a few men and women who reacted more poorly but he can’t imagine why it would bring a _magister_ down south during such a tumultuous time. 

Perhaps a matter had come up back in Qarinus, one that requires creating heirs and alliances. It is a matter that plagues all noble houses, and having a scion with no interest in doing either would be reason for the estrangement Mother Giselle spoke of. But why do this now?

Dorian is looking at him expectantly, Magister Pavus less so, and Maxwell considers his response. 

“I have,” he says carefully, watching every minute shift in the magister’s face. “More than heard of it, actually.”

Dorian raises a questioning eyebrow but his short burst of laughter is mocking and his response sardonic. “No! The Herald of Andraste? I am shocked and scandalized. You’re not exactly subtle, oh Lord Inquisitor.”

He scowls. “Dorian.”

Realization dawns on the magister and he shakes his head, shoulders sagging. “I should’ve known what this was about-”

“ _No_!” And Dorian is in his face, forcing him back several steps. “You don't get to make those assumptions. You know nothing about him.”

“Dorian, please,” his father says, trying for reason and calm. “This is not what I wanted when-”

“I’m never what you wanted, Father, or have you forgotten? Shall I tell him what this is really about?”

What is he talking about?

Tension is too thick, the air thrumming with magic and years of frustration and hurt. If someone moves, makes a sudden gesture, a sudden sound, would the entire tavern go up in flames?

Magister Pavus is a desperate man now, caught between his defiant son and a witness to the broken state of House Pavus. He’s afraid, Maxwell realizes, of what an outsider, a stranger in a position of great power and authority, could think or say about the whole affair. It’s the same fear that kept Dorian quiet and in denial of his past, and Maxwell wonders what else happened in Qarinus, what else drove Dorian south and made Felix pen those words. 

“Dorian, please, if you’ll only listen to me,” the magister says and Maxwell almost feels sorry for the man, for the magister brought down low by his only son.

“Why? So you can spout more convenient lies? Pretend that nothing happened and everything is perfect?” Dorian thrusts a finger at him. “ _He_ taught me to hate blood magic. ‘The resort of a weak mind,’ he said. Those were _his_ words.” Dorian’s voice shakes. “But what was the first thing you did when your precious heir refused to play pretend for the rest of his life?”

_“There seems to be bad blood between you and your family.”_

_“Interesting turn of phrase.”_

Maxwell barely hears the truth Dorian spits back at his father. He stares at the magister, horror and wrath slowly boiling under his skin, and then at Dorian leaning heavily against the nearest table, utterly spent. He goes to Dorian’s side, hand on his dagger, and says quietly, coldly, while watching the magister, “I think it’s time we left.”

“I agree.” Dorian doesn’t spare his father another glance while leaving the tavern.

Maxwell stops at the doorway to look at the defeated man. “If you wish to contact him again, you may do so through my ambassador.”

He shuts the door behind him.

* * *

Dorian is already halfway up the path out of the village. Maxwell has to run to catch up to him, ignoring the villagers waving, calling out to him to wish him well on his quest to save the world. His head is pounding and his chest hurts and he doesn’t know where to start. What does he say? “Are you all right?” sounds understated after learning what the “estrangement” was really about.

“Dorian-”

“Not now,” Dorian snaps back. He catches himself and takes a deep, shaking breath while his stride shortens. “That was… I’m sorry. But I need to be alone.”

“Okay.” Maxwell slows to a stop. “You know where I’ll be.”

Dorian nods mutely and vanishes up the path. Maxwell looks at the broken windmill next to it and then turns around to go to the docks. If the dwarven bookseller is still there, he’ll buy something. Dorian could always use another piece of Chantry propaganda to mark up with sharp humor.

When he finally returns to the others, Cassandra marches up to him. “I hope you have an explanation.”

He tries to hide the book behind him. “I got distracted. I’m sorry.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. Dorian went by us without an explanation fifteen minutes ago. What happened? Should we expect anything or did he settle the matter?”

“He’s fine. Everything’s fine,” Maxwell says. “He just needs to be alone for a while.”

He doesn’t offer more and Cassandra tacitly understands, nods and backs off. They go to Varric and Cole, who are sitting in the shade; Varric is shuffling cards with a bored expression while Cole is watching the hills around the village.

“He tried to melt a snowflake because he liked waterfalls,” the spirit murmurs.

“Kid, you’ll have to explain that one to me,” Varric says while pocketing the deck and getting to his feet. 

“I shouldn’t,” Cole replies. “It’s not my place.”

They go to their horses and Maxwell stops short upon noticing a conspicuous absence. “Where’s my horse?”

“Followed Sparkler out,” Varric says. “Unhitched itself and went after him. I’m never getting used to its shit.”

“If it can lead Harritt to Trevelyan, it’ll make sure Dorian gets back to camp,” Cassandra says and swings up into her horse’s saddle. “We still have those smugglers to deal with. If they’re anything like the lyrium dealers from before, Arl Teagan will appreciate us getting rid of them.”

“Does that mean we can skip fighting a dragon?” Varric asks hopefully.

“Even if he doesn’t need us to, I have to,” Maxwell says while getting on Dorian’s horse. “It’s part of my training.”

“If someone told me I had to kill a high dragon to finish my ‘training’, I’d just fuck off back to Kirkwall,” Varric says. “You could not convince me to do it even if you paid me my weight in gold.”

“Didn’t you help Hawke kill a high dragon nesting inside a mine he bought years ago?” Cassandra asks.

“Was hoping you’d forget that.”

Nobody sees any trace of Dorian or the Bog Unicorn while riding back through the Crossroads and onward into the wilds. New growth is slowly hiding the scars of war but some corners of the Hinterlands have been permanently altered by it. There are places still locked in ice, thrumming with residual magic left behind by the rebel mages. And then there are other places that sing of abandoned lyrium. It’s not the same as red lyrium but it still leaves Maxwell shivering, hands clutching the reins as he tries to ignore it worming into his head.

“Probably left behind by the templars,” Cassandra remarks when she sees him craning his head to look at the blue crystals slowly forming on a broken chest next to a forgotten camp. “I’ll send men to take care of it.”

He almost tells her he never heard regular lyrium sing before, but she doesn’t know what red lyrium does to him. He bites his tongue and urges the mare forward at a quicker pace until the singing fades.

Inquisition soldiers greet them at the camp just below Lake Luthias. Among them is one of Corporal Vale’s men, probably sent to inform the others of the smugglers’ past activities. She smiles awkwardly at Maxwell, salutes him with a “Your Worship”, and he remembers to nod, remembers to ask her if she’d seen Dorian come by, the Tevinter, with a great undead beast following close behind.

“No, Your Worship,” she says. “But if I see him on the way back, I’ll be sure to tell him he’s needed.”

When she leaves, Cole goes with her, silent, darting from shadow to shadow while watching her back. Nobody notices until two soldiers return from a scouting mission with word of movement around the locked gate across the lake.

“Let’s go,” Maxwell says immediately. He’s itching for something to do, a problem to take care of, until Dorian comes back.

“If you’re still pretending, you’re doing a piss poor job of it,” Varric says casually while slinging Bianca over his shoulder. “And where’s the kid? Anyone see him?”

“I… saw him going down to the Crossroads with Analise,” a soldier replies. “I think? Mumbled something about sharp eyes and shadows… I think.”

“Then you three,” Cassandra says, gesturing to the soldiers organizing supplies, “are coming with us. Rest of you, be on your guard.”

The smugglers are Carta. Varric says as much right before a dwarf spots them and tries to raise the alarm. He topples back, two bolts sticking out of his chest. That gets the other smugglers’ attention and they rise as one, weapons in the air. They startle the nearby rams into a stampede while charging at the Inquisition.

The Carta outnumber them two to one and stubbornly cling to their territory. Maxwell isn’t quite at his best and takes a few hits before finding his stride and returning the favor with several brutal swings. One dwarf loses his head and another her arm, and then the rest suddenly scatter, screaming, clawing at their heads. Daggers glint in the light and two smugglers collapse. The others flee to Hafter’s Woods.

Maxwell tries to shake away the numbing pain in his right arm while walking over to Dorian. “Knew you’d show up.”

“I do love a fashionably late entrance,” Doran replies while prodding a body with his staff blade. He’s smiling a little too hard but Maxwell pretends not to notice. “Keeps them on their toes.”

Elsewhere, Varric rummages around a dead smuggler’s things. Dissatisfied with what he finds, he moves to the next, and the next, until Cole points to a dwarf. Varric searches the body and then rips a chain off. He holds up a key. “Hey, Trevelyan! Finally found the key to whatever’s behind that door.”

“But not today,” Cassandra says, pointing at the red-streaked sky. “We should clean this mess before the bears notice.”

With the soldiers’ help, they search the rest of the bodies for more information on what the Carta is doing in the Hinterlands and then strip the corpses of armor and weapons. Cassandra sends a soldier back to camp for reinforcements to watch the locked gate while others burn the bodies at the water’s edge. When they return to camp, the Bog Unicorn is busy terrorizing the others by existing; it walks up to Maxwell to nuzzle him with its cold bony muzzle and then ambles away to join the other horses.

“Andraste’s flaming sword, what _is_ that thing?” someone hisses while collecting the salvaged armor and arms to clean, repair, and redistribute. 

Maxwell goes inside his tent to shed his dented armor and to review the Carta missives. They give little away, making him wonder if the smugglers were being deliberately vague in case they ran into trouble like him. Then he abruptly sits up and it’s night. A fire crackles outside the tent and a ram brays in the hills. He looks around but doesn’t see either Dorian or Varric. He pulls on a coat and ties a sash around his waist before stepping outside.

Varric is sitting by the fire, writing, and Cassandra is talking to a soldier at the edge of camp. Maxwell goes searching for food and returns to the fire with a bowl of lukewarm stew. He eats around the undercooked pieces of parsnip while watching Varric write, grumble, cross something off, and start again. Cole comes and goes, pockets stuffed with leafy parsnip tops; some of the soldiers stare but Maxwell guesses the spirit is probably feeding them to the horses.

A few minutes after he sets his half-eaten bowl down, he takes another look around camp.

“Varric?” he asks. “Where’s Dorian?”

Varric points up at the lake. “Took a bottle and went that way. Make sure he doesn’t get too drunk and go for a swim. That never ends well.”

The moons can barely penetrate the trees along the path around the lake. He holds his left hand up like a torch to illuminate the dark and cautiously steps over gnarled roots and stone while searching for the mage. He sees someone sitting at the docks and splashes across the shallows onto the small island at the lake’s south end.

“Dorian,” he calls out.

Dorian turns around and salutes him with a bottle. “Thought you’d show up. Have a drink?” His speech isn’t slurred but he sounds overbright. Overcompensating? Wasn’t that what Katarin said?

The old sun-seasoned boards creak underfoot as Maxwell walks to the end of the dock and sits. Immediately, Dorian thrusts the bottle into his hands and watches while he sniffs its contents and takes a sip.

“Varric knew you’d come looking for me. Told me to take it, said it was as strong as I needed it to be.” He draws a knee to his chest and rests his chin on it. His hair had been scrubbed over and left unkempt. Moonlight gleams on the raised scars on his bare shoulder but he seems unaware of the chilly night. “He knew I needed it.”

Maxwell licks rice liquor off his teeth and hands the bottle back. “Dorian….”

“He’s a good man, my father,” Dorian says, staring out at the surface of the lake. “He taught me principle is important, that I should stand up for what I believed in. I know he cares for me, in his own way, but he will never change. I shouldn’t have expected anything else.”

“You hoped he would?”

“I was the culmination of decades - _ages_ \- of alliances and careful training. I was everything he hoped I would be, but I wouldn’t put on a show, marry the girl, keep everything unsavory private and locked away.” He huffs a bitter laugh. “Selfish, I suppose, not wanting to spend my entire life screaming on the inside.”

“So he turned to blood magic.”

“He wanted to alter my mind. Make me acceptable. Don’t know if it would’ve worked. Might have turned me into a drooling vegetable instead. Realizing he’d risk that than to watch House Pavus end with me, I… knew I had to leave. How could I stay knowing my own father would turn to the thing he hated most just because he couldn’t deal with the rumors, the whispers, the truth about his only son?”

Maxwell takes the bottle from him. “Is that why you wanted to keep us quiet?”

“You could say that.” Dorian closes his eyes and gathers himself. “I suppose I should tell you the whole story, or at least the parts that matter. The way my father talked about me back there, it’s because of who I used to be and what I did before I came here. I’m not that person now.”

“Who is? Just because he’s your father doesn’t mean he knows you better, not when you’ve been in the south for over a year.”

Dorian looks at him, startled, and then laughs too loudly, silencing the creatures around them for a few seconds. “You are far too young to be saying any of that with that kind of gravitas.”

Maxwell ducks his head, suddenly shy. “I’ve made mistakes.”

“So have I. Too many, in fact. Got thrown out of every Circle in Tevinter until Alexius found me, drunk like you wouldn’t believe in a… let’s just say you normally wouldn’t find people like me there.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Really.”

“Truly. If it weren’t for Alexius, I wouldn’t even be here. He took me in as his apprentice, kept me out of trouble until I became a titled enchanter. I owe that man everything.” Dorian drinks and pulls the bottle out of his mouth with a loud popping sound. “Those were the best years of my life. Made everything that happened after Felix contracted the taint so much worse. No one survives it - or they might but the Wardens take them away for good either way and that was out of the question. We looked for a cure but there was… nothing. Felix was getting sicker and Alexius was throwing away what little time he had left with his son trying to do the impossible.

“Then one day Alexius came to me about the Venatori. Said they offered to help him save Felix if he worked for them. All I knew then was that they were a cult determined to return the Imperium to its former glory. If it meant using blood magic, well, that’s because the magisters of old did it first. I refused and we fought. It was… disappointing to see a good man throw in with them because he wouldn’t accept the truth.” Dorian sighs. “Lost my way after that. Drank and slept through too many brothels to count. I left behind such an impressive trail it had the Magisterium talking. I was making a mockery of my father’s promises that I would be the one to carry my house to the Archon’s seat. I was going destroy House Pavus, and I didn’t care.

“But he did. He hired men to find me and bring me back home no matter what. Where they found me was one thing. What they did….” Dorian stares blankly at the lake, lost in a memory. “They murdered the guardsmen at the estate I was staying in and dragged me back to Qarinus. My own father held me in my rooms for months while trying to save what was left of his dignity. Made me his prisoner, more or less.”

Maxwell’s mind is spinning. Everything is sliding into place like the pieces of a dwarven puzzle box, every single thing Dorian did since being told of the letter now having its horrifying reason. “So that thing you said about the family retainer-”

“Yes. I didn’t need you worrying so I tried to play it off. Be dramatic to mask the truth. But it did happen, because my father was a desperate man. Desperate enough to throw aside his own principles for a blood ritual to save _his_ face.” Dorian takes the bottle from Maxwell and drinks steadily for a few seconds. “Part of me thought he wasn’t serious, that he wasn’t actually going to go through with it. Part of me kept hoping he’d change his mind.”

“But he didn’t,” Maxwell says quietly. “You had to save yourself.”

Another long pull and Dorian hands the bottle over. It’s almost empty. “Thank you, for telling me about the letter and for being there for the whole… affair. I don’t know what I’d have done if I went in alone. Probably brought the whole tavern down on our heads and ended House Pavus right then and there.”

“I’m glad I could help,” Maxwell says but his words sound vacant and meaningless compared the weight of Dorian’s story. He swirls the bottle’s contents and takes a sip, waits until the warmth in his stomach subsides before speaking. “Do you think you’ll ever forgive him?”

Dorian shrugs. “He wasn’t here to make amends. Well, it wasn’t the kind I want him to make. He’s afraid of you, Maxwell. He was worried about what my associating with you and the Inquisition will do to him, not what made me leave home in the first place. In the end, I still didn’t matter as much to him as House Pavus did. I can’t forgive him for that.”

His voice is brittle, quavering, giving away his weakening grasp on his composure. Maxwell leans in, bumping his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Not really, no,” Dorian admits. “I didn’t want what brought me down south to affect… this, us, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t stop it from following me here. I was _terrified_ when you told me you had a letter from him. And then at the inn… Maker knows what you must think of me now, after that whole display.”

“I don’t think less of you,” Maxwell says honestly. “More, if possible. After everything you went through, you still came here to do the right thing. You’re amazing.”

“The things you say,” Dorian murmurs, words hot against his mouth, and he realizes just how close they are, leaning into each other until nothing remains between them. “Never lets me forget why I’m here. Why you have to fight for what’s in your heart.”

“I’m glad you did,” he says, a hushed whisper, and then Dorian is kissing him, cradling his face with a trembling hand.

Dorian kisses like he won’t get another chance, mapping Maxwell’s mouth again and again like he’s trying to commit its shape and taste to memory. It leaves Maxwell breathless, head spinning, while a hunger starts gnawing inside. He kisses back, chasing the prickling sweet tang of liquor and magic from Dorian’s slick lips to the back of his mouth, and his heart flutters at Dorian’s low pleased hum, at the smile against his lips. He doesn’t notice Dorian slowly easing him down until he hears lapping water and creaking panels under his head. He looks up at the older man and the hunger grows, anticipation thrumming under hot skin.

“Thought about this more than I’ll admit,” Dorian says roughly while kissing the corner of his mouth. “Though I imagined it happening somewhere indoors and on a bed but I can’t seem to care right now.”

“You don’t say.”

Laughing lowly, Dorian kisses him again. He crawls on top of Maxwell, nudging his knees apart, and presses down in tandem with his languorously filthy caresses; Maxwell gasps at the sudden flush of heat and pressure, and bucks up against it.

“Dorian,” he says, shaking, pleading, desperate for something.

Dorian kisses the scars on his face, nuzzles at the crook of his neck and drags teeth lightly over the rapid pulse. Maxwell whimpers helplessly, burying trembling fingers in Dorian’s disheveled hair and curling his legs around the mage. Dorian swears and drags a hand down his side, pulling at his tunic, the sash around his waist. His fingers start loosening the knot.

Something rustles in the bushes nearby. They freeze and Maxwell quickly sits up, knocking over the bottle and sending it rolling into the lake. Dorian scrambles out from between his knees and squints at the shadows, muttering about light. When no wisp is summoned, Maxwell holds his left hand up and pale yellow points glint in the dark.

“That had better not be a bear,” Dorian hisses.

The pinpricks move and a great red ram bounces out of the underbrush to the top of the docks. It screams at them and then bounds away imperiously. Seconds later, soldiers watching the smugglers’ den yell and curse up a storm while the ram brays and bolts back into the dark.

Dorian groans and presses his forehead against Maxwell’s shoulder. “Maker, I will set this whole _mountain_ on fire.”

“I think that was Lord Woolsley. Thought they locked him back up.”

“... I’m sorry, what? Did I hear that correctly?”

It’s hard to imagine his encounter with the strange beast was while the world was still at the mercy of the Breach. “A year ago, someone at Redcliffe went around asking if anyone could find his family’s red ram,” Maxwell says, a bit sheepish. “He was offering a reward to whoever could find a ‘Lord Woolsley’ and politely tell him to please return to his family. I found him near the lake and, uh, told him his family would like him to come back home. It… worked.”

Dorian stares at Maxwell for a long moment. “I will never understand why these things happen around you.”

“And yet you’re still here,” Maxwell says and Dorian kisses him.

One becomes two because five but after the initial excitement over Lord Woolsley’s sudden appearance, he starts feeling tired and cold. He leans on Dorian’s shoulder and says, “We should go back. They must be wondering what’s taking us so long.”

“You mean Varric is wondering,” Dorian says. “I’ll bet you five sovereigns he’s already written ten pages on whatever we might be doing here.”

Maxwell flushes while getting to his feet. Still, he has to point out the obvious. “That sounds impractical. What if a bear stumbled in on us?”

“Went for the worst possible scenario, I see. And here I was thinking about the splinters, the nippy little bugs, and the lack of oils,” Dorian says. “Hardly the place for a romantic tryst.”

“To be honest, I was more concerned about Cassandra sending someone to find us,” Maxwell says.

“Your horse will defend your honor and dignity before that happens, mark my word,” Dorian replies and summons a wisp to light the way. “Uncanny creature followed me all over the hills like a great black shadow. I’m surprised nobody attacked it for being an abomination I raised from the dead. Surprised nobody attacked me thinking I was Venatori either.”

“And face the wrath of the Lord Inquisitor himself? I doubt they’ll risk it.”

Varric is still awake when they return. He’s sitting by the fire, cleaning the various parts that together create Bianca while telling the nightwatch tales of Kirkwall. Cole is sitting on the lower branches of a tree and Cassandra has probably turned in for the night. Nobody looks at Maxwell and Dorian as they slip past to the tents but Maxwell swears Varric winks at him while spinning a story out of Hawke’s first encounter with the former Arishok. 

He steps inside his tent and nearly collides with the mage. “Dorian? What is it?”

Dorian shakes his head and turns around. There’s a strange, uneasy expression on his face. “Just occurred to me that we don’t… have to keep quiet anymore. No more denying this thing of ours if someone asks. No more pretending, if it’s what you want.”

“What about you?”

“I was never very good at hiding myself away,” Dorian replies. “As you know.”

But Maxwell knows what he was willing to say and do to pretend, to protect himself from harm and loss. What else can one do after fleeing from a blood ritual meant to condemn and erase who they are? How else does one survive after such a deep and utter betrayal? 

Maxwell isn’t experienced in these matters, either. Even if his father hadn’t dashed his hopes for a life and meaning of his own, the mage-templar war left no time for such things and his sister always came first.

“I’m not used to this,” he slowly says. “So whatever you’re comfortable with is okay with me. Whatever you say, goes.”

Dorian’s eyes gleam in the wisplight. “There are so many things I could do with that. But I’ll play nice and wait.”

“Your magnanimity astounds me,” Maxwell replies though his heart jumps at the insinuation. He’s rewarded with a huff of incredulous laughter and a kiss that makes his heart race a little too quickly this late at night.

He falls asleep listening to Varric’s warm easy cadence and with Dorian curled up at his back, an arm slung over his waist and nose pressed against his neck. The last thing he remembers is placing his hand on top of Dorian’s and feeling the mage smile.


	10. andraste 14: the path of blood and destruction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank anyone and everyone still reading DA fics and took a chance on mine. I appreciate it more than I can express in a chapter note.
> 
> There is a _lot_ going on in this chapter.

Breaker Thram is at the camp when he arrives at mid-morning on the third day. He pulls his horse up short and the Bog Unicorn half-rears before settling down.

“What is she doing here?” Cassandra mutters while handing her horse’s reins to a soldier.

“You’re in luck,” Thram says, striding up to him as he dismounts. “Frostbacks are fire-breathers and notoriously territorial. There is no better dragon to end your training with.”

“I didn’t exactly have a choice,” he replies while walking into camp with her. The others are keeping their hands busy while mentally bracing themselves for the task ahead. “Arl Teagan asked the Inquisition to kill her so that he can reclaim the valley.”

“I hear complaining,” Thram says. “There’ll be none of that here. There is only the hunt and the people who will assist you in your battle with the beast. Just remember - you must be the one to slay her. You must feel her last breaths under your sword. Her life is yours to claim and yours alone.”

“Suddenly I’m not feeling so hot,” Varric mutters while uncapping his waterskin. “Just got done throwing Carta and darkspawn out of that thaig and now this?”

“You didn’t act like it a half-hour ago when you were teaching Trevelyan that thing you called a ‘song’,” Cassandra replies. 

Varric presses his waterskin to his chest. “You wound me, Seeker!”

“Don’t you start,” she says. “Save your dramatics for the dragon.”

The dragon. One could not forget the sight of a massive vessel of sheer power and fire bearing down on the nascent Inquisition when they entered the valley because it was her territory, her home, and she tolerated no trespassers. Everything Maxwell read about the dragons of old failed to prepare him for the Frostback screaming a challenge, throat and jaws full of fire; they fled because they were not there to slay a dragon, they never entertained the _thought_ of it. Now he is here with that singular intent and the gravity of the task sits heavily on his shoulders. How does one fight a high dragon and live? 

“Do you have any advice?” he asks.

The breaker stares at him for a long moment and then slowly, clearly says, “No.”

She walks away to make her own preparations, leaving him flat-footed in the middle of camp. He looks around and spots the Iron Bull’s great horns.”Bull, learn anything about the Frostback that’ll make this easier?”

The Iron Bull thinks for a few seconds. “Managed to get far into the valley yesterday before her babies noticed. Nearly lost my breeches-” Sera cackles and nearly drops an unmarked flask. “-but got a few ideas. She’s a firebreather and her aim’s incredible, but those fireballs take a few seconds to land. Keep moving if you don’t want to turn crispy. When she’s on the ground, stay away from her mouth or have someone distract her while everybody else hits her where it hurts most. Back of her legs and her belly are the best spots. When she flies, get mages and archers on her to bring her back down or at least wear her out.”

“If she flies, she’s gone. Job done, arl off our backs,” Sera points out.

“Not likely,” Cassandra says. “They’re territorial and stubborn to a fault. She’ll fight to the death if she must. This is a test of fortitude and we must be prepared for it.”

“Spoken like a few Pentaghasts I met in my day,” Blackwall says and hefts his shield. “Let’s hope Harritt made this to outlast dragonfire.”

“I am suddenly regretting ever agreeing to join your dragon hunt,” Dorian mutters.

Maxwell swears Thram is suppressing a mocking grin while turning away to talk to the requisitions officer. He looks around at the others and clears his throat loudly. “So if anyone wants to sit this one out, just say so. I won’t hold it against you.”

Varric coughs conspicuously into his dusty hand. “As the only dwarf here, I’d like to skip this fight. I’ve done the whole thing with Hawke already and I never want to do it again.”

“I’ll watch for you,” Cole tells him solemnly. “No fire on your heels. But fire doesn’t lick.”

“It’s called a figure of speech. Just saying I’m running away from the dragon breathing fire at me isn’t good storytelling. You need to….”

Solas calls Maxwell aside before he can retrieve his sword and saddlebags from the Bog Unicorn. “Inquisitor, may I have a word?”

Curious, he follows the apostate to a more isolated corner of camp, next to scraggly spindleweed growing between the cracks in the basalt formations. “What is it, Solas?”

“I apologize for the timing. I should have brought it up sooner but I did not realize-” Solas hesitates, recollecting himself. “I wonder how necessary it is for _you_ to take part in the dragon hunt. If something should happen, what becomes of the rest of us?”

Maxwell wants to drag his hands down his face. “You’re right. It’s not really the time to bring it up. I’m the Inquisitor, Solas. I can’t just sit back and let the others do the work for me. It’s what everyone expects. It’s what Arl Teagan expects and I need him on my side.”

“I assume this has something to do with your alliance with Enchanter Fiona,” Solas says dryly. “One should not expect the Inquisitor himself to risk life and limb to appease someone who should’ve known better than to ask.”

“I’m not a fool,” Maxwell says. “Besides, I have the Inquisition’s best watching my back. You already saved me once. I think you can do it again, if it comes to that.”

“You give me far too much credit, and that would depend on the calamity that awaits us,” Solas says and gestures to camp, signaling the end of their talk. “Thank you for listening, Inquisitor.”

Maxwell sighs internally, exasperated, and then goes to his horse to remove the saddlebags and sword. The Bog Unicorn stamps its near hind while he’s freeing his sword from its straps, warning him that someone is approaching. It’s Dorian, Tyrdda’s staff tucked under his arm while he sorts small vials in his hands. He slides two into one of the pouches on Maxwell’s belt without prompting.

“So what did the resident homeless apostate elf want?” he asks casually, eyeing the back of Solas’s head while the apostate examines a crate of flasks.

“Wanted me to reconsider taking part in killing the Frostback,” Maxwell says. “Told him I’m not changing my mind.”

Dorian hums thoughtfully. “Doesn’t have much sense for timing, does he? But he’s not wrong. Can’t exactly afford to lose you to a dragon’s stomach just because you need this arl to play nice.”

The temptation to throw his greatsword at something is strong but he can’t break his main weapon right before a dragon hunt. He takes a deep, even breath instead. “Dorian.”

“Just don’t do anything foolish. I prefer you alive and intact when the day ends.”

“What about you?” He leans his greatsword on the basalt formations before loosening the straps on the Bog Unicorn’s saddle. “Don’t make me worry.”

“I can handle myself, oh Lord Inquisitor.” Maxwell looks at him. “Fine, I’ll keep my distance. But you’ll have to talk to Vivienne. From what I hear, she’s been wanting to use a particular set of melee spells against an appropriate target and I fear today is the day.”

“What are you talking about?” Maxwell looks over his shoulder, searching for the court enchanter. He spies her holding something up to the sunlight. It looks like a sword hilt. “What is that?”

“The blade of a knight-enchanter, my dear,” Vivienne tells him two hours later while a glowing green blade manifests from its hilt. “Let’s see if I remember the dances.”

He vaguely remembers his sister talking about it. Evelyn had been passed over for the training and sulked for days, or so Oswald said before she kicked his knee. Few knight-enchanters exist at any given time given the training required and the specific nature of the selected mages. He isn’t surprised Vivienne is one of them.

Blackwall is looking skeptically at it. “Is that thing supposed to hurt?”

“Would you like me to test it on you, my dear?” she asks sweetly. “Or on a dragon who’s noticed trespassers in her valley?”

The Frostback roars in response, a thunderous force of sound that the walls of the valley amplify into a deafening, crippling cacophony. Maxwell doubles over, hands clamped over his ears, and grits his teeth until the echoes finally die. When he lowers his hands, he finds red smears on his gloves. Others are shaking their heads, rubbing their ears and staggering to the side while trying to regain their hearing.

The Frostback leaps from her perch on top of a rocky hill, wings outstretched, and lands almost on top of Cassandra. She snaps at the Seeker but Cassandra is already darting out of reach and slashing at the high dragon’s left forearm. The dragon barely notices, already turning her sights on the charging Iron Bull; she huffs and spits fire but he rolls out of the way, laughing all the while.

“What is he so happy about?” Blackwall mutters.

With the Frostback focusing on Cassandra and the Iron Bull, Maxwell runs in and swings at the back of her right leg. His sword sinks into thick hide and blood spurts when he pulls it free. The Frostback shrieks and tries to kick him away but stumbles when Vivienne suddenly appears, coasting on a trail of Fade magic, and strikes the weakened spot with her spirit blade. She’s the only mage dancing around the dragon’s clawed reach; Dorian and Solas keep their distance with Sera, maintaining a steady volley of spells and arrows.

Blades flash, slicing into the Frostback’s flank and she bucks hard; Cole somersaults over Blackwall and vanishes before the dragon can seize him. Her teeth crash into Blackwall’s shield instead and he smashes her snout before cutting the softer skin under her jaw. She hops back, nearly trampling Maxwell and the Iron Bull, and then launches into the air on great bright wings.

“There she goes,” the Iron Bull says while pulling Maxwell to his feet. “Watch. She’ll turn around that perch of hers and breathe fire at us. Then she’ll come in for the kill and that’s when you strike.”

“Wish I had wings,” Maxwell says while wiping sweat and blood from his face.

The Frostback suddenly screams and he flinches from the ear-splitting sound. Sera suddenly yelps and he looks up the slope to see her jump back while reaching for a flask at her belt.

“Get away, get away, get away!” she shouts at the dragonlings crawling out of the crevices and underbrush, jaws snapping at her, Dorian, and Solas. Sera throws the flask at her feet and cold mist explodes; she leaps away from the white cloud and a dragonling falls dead, an ice-coated arrow sticking out of its throat.

Dorian traps three of the dragonlings in ice and Solas shatters them with a telekinetic burst. Then the Frostback descends on the three, enraged, and fire builds in her giant maw.

“Run!” Maxwell shouts and sprints across the scorched field to them.

A dragonling spits fire at his legs and Cole stabs the unlucky beast in the back. It squeals as it dies and the Frostback swings her head around. Maxwell tries to stop but slips and hits the ground. His sword slides away and he scrambles back as the high dragon breathes fire at him.

A barrier wraps around him and Cassandra as she leaps over him to deflect the torrent of flame with her shield. The sheer force of it pushes her across the earth into his side but she doesn’t yield. Furious, the Frostback raises her claws to swipe Cassandra aside but the Iron Bull charges in, greataxe swinging. Blood gushes from the deep cut on the dragon’s forearm and she staggers, spilling red everywhere. The Frostback snaps at him but the Iron Bull evades her jaws and swings at her other arm, trying to cripple her.

“Thanks,” Maxwell says breathlessly while scrambling to his greatsword.

“Don’t mention it,” Cassandra says. She glances at her blade, curses in Nevarran upon seeing the dents in the steel, but strides forward anyway. “Come on, Trevelyan.”

They join the Iron Bull and attack the Frostback’s limbs to hobble her. Outraged, she sweeps her tail around and throws them back. Cole leaps onto it with his inhuman reflexes and runs up her back, bloody daggers glinting in the sun. He slices at the joints at the base of her wings, inducing a pained roar. The Frostback swings her head around and lunges for him, teeth bared. Solas stops her with a telekinetic blast at her jaw, slamming her head into the cliffside. Stone and soil tumble down, burying some of the dragonlings, and forcing others to scatter.

“Hey, ugly!” Blackwall shouts from the middle of the valley, surrounded by burning patches of dragonfire and dead dragonlings. “Over here!”

The Frostback leaps over the others like a lion, landing heavily and knocking Blackwall off his feet. He scrambles back up and runs under her when she tries to immolate him. He jabs at her underbelly and she rears, ripping his sword out of his hand. Vivienne slides in, aiming a spell that coats the Frostback’s leg in ice, and then slices through it with her blade. Blood sprays the ground as the dragon stumbles away, roars, and takes flight.

“She’s slowing down!” the Iron Bull crows and barrels down the slope to the valley.

He’s right - her ascent is slower and one of her arms hangs loosely as she circles the valley; bright blood streams down her arms and legs and Blackwall’s sword shines in the sunlight. She lobs two fireballs at her assailants as she circles her perch and then lands on top of it. She stares down at them and screams defiantly, daring them to come find her.

“Next time, I’m joining Varric and sitting this out,” Dorian grouses while the Iron Bull scrambles up the steep slope and Sera bounds from ledge to ledge. “I wasn’t meant for the outdoors!”

“You keep saying that,” Maxwell says and hauls him up to even footing. 

The dragon’s perch, a hill flattened by the dragon’s bulk, is littered with trampled trees, broken stone, and bleached druffalo bones. There may be even a human skull or two but the Frostback crushes everything underfoot while she whirls around, knocking even more trees over, and lunges for the nearest intruder. Cassandra ducks under her snapping jaw and strikes her neck, drawing blood. Maxwell circles around while the Seeker has the dragon distracted and slashes at her exposed shoulder. At Blackwall’s hurried suggestion, Sera takes aim at the oozing wounds in the Frostback’s limbs and haunches; her arrows sink through torn hide, aggravating the dragon’s injuries.

The Frostback screams, louder than before, and the ear-splitting sounds roll over them to ricochet off the stone and high cliffs. Maxwell drops his sword to cover his ears, clenches his teeth as his ears ring and ring and ring. Something knocks him to the ground and it rolls violently underneath when he tries to get back up. Someone pulls him up and muffled sounds press against his ringing ears. 

“... Maxwell!” Dorian shakes him hard. “Come on, snap out of it! _Fasta vass_!”

Vivienne shoulders him aside and slaps Maxwell. He jerks back and raises his forearms in self-defense. The ringing doesn’t subside but sound funnels into his head, steadying his footing and reminding him of the very real threat just several feet away, battering against Blackwall’s unsteady shield while the Iron Bull hauls a still paralyzed Sera away. 

“Trevelyan, do us all a favor and _slay that dragon_ ,” she says sharply, summons her spirit blade, and pushes past him engage the injured and enraged Frostback. 

Maxwell stares at the dark blood dripping from her ears and almost doesn’t feel Dorian pushing his sword back into his hands. Maxwell looks at him with an apologetic smile that feels more like a grimace, tightens his grip on the hilt, and turns to follow the knight-enchanter. A green barrier shimmers around them while they join a shaken but stubborn Cassandra to finish the fight.

There’s a deep cut under the dragon’s jaw; Maxwell sees it every time her teeth ricochet off of Blackwall’s increasingly mangled shield and decides to use it to bring her down. The next time the dragon’s head gets thrown back, he slashes at the leaking cut, tearing it apart. Searing blood splashes his face and he sputters; droplets land on his tongue and they sting like sour lemons. He quickly backpedals and ducks under the Frostback’s teeth before wiping the blood off.

“Sera!” he calls out while pointing to a sluggishly bleeding injury on the dragon’s left forearm. “Arrows!”

She obliges with a rain of them, ripping through the torn hide. Cole leaps onto the Frostback’s back again and slashes at another wound, deepening and widening it. Blood streams down the dragon’s side as she screams in pain and bucks him off. She’s slow to snap at him and he’s gone before her jaws can close on his head.

The Frostback is becoming lethargic as the injuries take their toll, though she certainly doesn’t act it. Instead of fleeing to save herself, she lunges at Blackwall and then at the Iron Bull, tossing them aside. Solas throws a telekinetic blast at her head before she can crush the Qunari, breaking off several teeth. Maxwell and Cassandra attack her limbs, forcing her back and exposing her underbelly to Sera’s arrows and Cole’s daggers. Dorian casts a spell that seems to shred the Frostback’s hind leg from within and then knocks her off-stride with a bright bolt at her forearm before she can swipe at Maxwell.

The Iron Bull slams his greataxe into the dragon’s exposed underbelly. She twists away at the last second but to her detriment instead of his; the greataxe glances off Blackwall’s buried sword, driving it even deeper into her body. It pierces something and blood gushes out as she staggers away. She stumbles, heaving for air while blood trickles out of her mouth, but still snaps at Maxwell when he approaches. She roars like thunder, an unrelenting force of sound and fury, and her hard eyes fix on him as he drives his sword into her throat. She rips the blade out of his hands and throws him aside, hacks and belches flame while struggling to dislodge it. Cassandra pulls Maxwell to his feet and they quickly back away while the Frostback thrashes, breaking stone and shattering the last of the trees. Her arms and legs finally give out and she collapses, wheezing, an eye still staring at Maxwell until it glazes over.

He sits down hard. He looks at his gloved hands, soaked with blood, and peels them off. His hands are still red. He can barely see the anchor.

“Trevelyan?” Cassandra says.

He closes his eyes, drags air into his sore lungs, but his heart keeps pounding in his bruised chest. He can’t stop seeing the dragon’s defiant stare as he drove his sword into her. He doesn’t know how to feel about all that anger and rage focusing on him, the one who dared to invade and slay her. His hands shake and he clenches them to keep others from seeing.

“That… was something,” he says hoarsely. “Can’t believe we did that.”

“Kill a dragon, yeah?” Sera says. She’s sitting, too, not able to look at the towering corpse across from her. She drags a dirt-streaked hand through her wild mop of stained hair. “Shootin’ arrows at dragons. What good are arrows!”

Blackwall drags his feet over to the Frostback and wrenches his sword free. The tip is broken. “Next time I’m getting a mace.”

Maxwell hears a distant commotion and looks out at the mouth of the valley. Inquisition soldiers are gingerly picking their way past rubble and patches of dragonfire, following someone into the Blood Cliffs. He sighs at the sight of Thram striding past the dead dragonlings and slowly gets to his feet. He picks up his sword and squares his sore shoulders as the breaker reaches the top of the hill.

“So,” Thram says. She’s streaked in blood and dirt. “You’ve slain the beast. Congratulations, Inquisitor.”

“Wow, what happened to you?” the Iron Bull blurts out.

“Drakes, if you know anything about dragons,” she replies. She surveys the destruction. “I must be alone with the Inquisitor to finish his initiation.”

Everyone stares at her until she jabs her finger down the uneven slope. Blackwall sighs and picks up his shield. “Need a bath.”

“A hot one, preferably. A hot spring would be marvelous,” Vivienne says. She looks down at her stained robes and dented armor. “This is _never_ washing out.”

Dorian is the last to leave, looking worriedly between Maxwell and the breaker before someone pulls him down the slope. Maxwell steels himself and turns around to see Thram walk up to the Frostback and take out a hunting knife. She makes a deep cut in the dragon’s neck, slicing through hardened hide and thick muscle, and presses an infusion vial against the incision. Bright red streams into the container until it’s nearly full and Thram seals it. She returns to Maxwell and holds out the vial.

“Take it,” she commands and he doesn’t question her.

The infusion is hot to the touch and he almost drops it in surprise. He turns it over in his tacky red hands and then looks up at the elf.

“This is the first of many,” she says quietly, solemnly, almost reverently. He’s never heard her speak like this before. “The life of a high dragon is now yours. Her power and rage are now yours. She is the indomitable will, defiant in the face of adversity and death. She demanded a price for her life, and you paid it and lived. Take her wrath and turn it on your enemies. Make them pay for their attempts on your life. The closer you are to death, the more alive you become.”

He unseals the vial. Whatever she infused the dragon’s blood with has a grassy scent but it is immediately overwhelmed by an iron tang and something else that makes the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. 

Thram paces around him, her strides slow and measured. “Your allies will respect you. Your enemies will fear you.”

_I won’t be afraid again._

“No, Inquisitor,” Thram says and he realizes he spoke out loud. “You will not be afraid again.”

* * *

“So how are you feeling? Temperamental? Bloodthirsty? Murderous? Ready to breathe fire at the most insignificant offense?”

“Dorian.”

“One can’t help asking after you come back with a knapsack full of dragon blood and after reading sixteen books on dragon cults-”

“You read _how many_ -”

“-and noticing an underlying trend towards uncontrollable rage and madness if left unchecked. I even have notes. Would you like them?”

Maxwell is too sore and tired to think of something to say. He just stares at the wisp floating behind Dorian while picking at the buckles on his breastplate, willing his fingers to pull the straps free so that he can shed the weight. Everything still smells of sweat and blood, no matter how vigorously he scrubbed his hands and face after returning from the valley.

Dorian sighs. “I suppose not. You have enough worries as it is.”

“How many pages?” Maxwell asks while managing to loosen a strap. “Did you actually…?”

“You are speaking to one of only two mages in all of Thedas who successfully took time magic from theory to practice. Of course I have notes. Twenty pages, in fact, including references.”

He can’t get the other strap out of its buckle. “Where did you find the time?”

“I have my ways,” Dorian replies. “But - let me.” He pushes Maxwell’s hands away to finish unbuckling the breastplate and helps him take it off. “Reading about it isn’t the same as experiencing it. I never imagined I’d fight a full grown high dragon when I came south but here I am with a pile of blood-soaked robes and enough dragon-shaped nightmares to last a fortnight. You spent months training with that elf but did that actually prepare you for the reality of it?”

Maxwell touches the gouges and dents in the breastplate, scratching off flecks of dried dragon blood with his nails. He then tosses it to the side, careful not to hit the knapsack of vials or bring down the entire tent. “I don’t think anyone can ever prepare you for it.”

Dorian tilts his head, curiosity burning in his gaze, in his words. “What was it like?”

“It….”

Is there any way to explain it with words? He remembers how the infusion’s strange scent prickled his nose, how he could feel its heat before it touched his lips. He expected it to taste like blood but it didn’t; it stung like a thousand little needles down his throat and what followed was a slow searing burn, like too much northern spice, and he coughed while handing the vial back. He didn’t _taste_ so much as _feel_ it settle in his stomach. His mouth stopped burning but his stomach didn’t and the heat spread like a spark swelling into great flames, lurching in his veins. It was a tidal wave, hot and primal and coursing inside him like a living thing, and he fell to his knees, breathing harshly while the dragon’s blood burned.

Thram hauled him back to his feet and studied his face. “Do you feel her, Inquisitor? That is the Frostback. You took her life and drank her blood and now she lives inside you. Her strength is yours. When provoked, so is her wrath. Summon her. Show me what you can do.”

“Show you what?” Maxwell asked and she drew her sword. “You must be joking.”

“Better to master her rage now, against me, than on your own,” she said and lunged for his heart.

“I don’t know how to describe it,” Maxwell decides to say. “It’s like… a well that won’t run dry, or that ember you find in the ashes the next morning. I keep reaching and finding something pushing me forward. Spent the day killing a high dragon and I didn’t feel it when we fought.”

“She made you drink some dragon’s blood and then fight her? Right after we killed a dragon? What-”

“I had to know what it feels like, why reavers are so powerful and dangerous.” He carefully prods a bluish splotch on his jaw, fresher than all the other cuts, burns, and bruises on his body. “It didn’t feel like I spent a half-hour running away from a high dragon. Then she hit my face.”

“Of course she did,” Dorian says, looking sourly at the bruise. “Then what?”

“I broke her sword and fractured her ribs. She shouted at me for apologizing, said that was the entire point.” He rubs the back of his neck. “She’s worse than my old trainer.”

Dorian huffs and shakes his head. “Well, I’m glad you still have some semblance of decency.”

“I know what I’m getting into,” Maxwell says and turns away to peel off the rest of his stained, dirt-streaked clothes. “Don’t worry about me.”

A hand on his wrist reels him back in. Dorian kisses indulgently, convincing Maxwell that the day is over and they have all the time in the world. His hands settle on Maxwell’s waist, tugging at the stained faded silk sash and kneading lightly while coaxing out a low breathy moan.

“You need to try harder to make me stop,” Dorian murmurs into his mouth.

Maxwell shivers and curls his fingers against Dorian’s chest while he returns the kiss. The anchor flares as Dorian slides his hand to the knot on the sash and toys with it, loosening it little by little. Maxwell thinks to say something about intentions but Dorian bites his lip and the half-thoughts vanish.

Someone bursts out laughing outside the tent - the Iron Bull, while Sera screeches in a mocking imitation of the Frostback dragon - and Maxwell is reminded that they have very little privacy in the middle of camp. Dorian sighs, fighting back a grimace, and presses one more kiss before letting him go.

“And when does the Lord Inquisitor plan to return us to civilization?” he asks while picking at the buckles on his forearm. He frowns at them like he’d rather set them on fire.

“When we’re done draining the dragon,” Maxwell says. He licks his teeth reflexively, seeking out that strange prickling sensation, but there’s nothing. He glances at knapsack holding fifteen infusion vials. They were hot to the touch three hours after slaying the Frostback. They probably still are.

“That could take days. Wouldn’t it spoil?”

“Thram says dragon’s blood is different. If it’s infused, it can last for months,” he replies while undoing the knot of his sash and balling it up to toss aside. “Lucky for me, I guess. Lets me focus on stopping Corypheus instead of hunting dragons every other week.”

“And the rest of the dragon?” Dorian asks. “The arl won’t mind letting her rot and cloud the air with her foul stench?”

Arl Teagan came several hours after news spread that the Frostback had been slain. He followed Maxwell and Cassandra through the valley, unfazed by the dead drakes and still-burning patches of dragonfire, and climbed up the rocky hill with the dead dragon. He stared at it for an uncomfortably long moment and said, “We could use her.”

“Arl Teagan knows people who can use dragonhide and scales,” Maxwell says. “He said they’d appreciate having raw material to work with and can make me whatever I want as a favor.”

“How gracious of him.”

Maxwell pauses, remembering what else the arl said. “He also offered me the Frostback’s head.”

“And what could you _possibly_ do with that?”

* * *

“You would not believe how many nobles are asking to see the head,” Josephine says while tossing yet another letter onto a growing pile on her cluttered desk. “Which presents us with an excellent opportunity.”

“Another one?” Maxwell asks while staring at the fireplace.

“There’s always an opportunity to extend your influence, Inquisitor,” she says wryly. “You are now a dragonslayer as well as an esteemed member of House Trevelyan, the Herald of Andraste, and the Lord Inquisitor. Quite a collection of titles. And nobles will do anything for an invitation to be seen with you and your trophy.”

He grimaces. The memory of the Frostback’s defiant dying glare is still seared in his mind. “She’s not a trophy.”

“They don’t know that,” Josephine replies. “I also received a letter from an associate of a smith in Denerim thanking you for the dragonscale, bone, and hide. He’s offering the smith’s knowledge of how to work the material into weapons and armor in case you encounter more dragons.”

“Sounds like Wade,” Leliana remarks while entering the office with a tray laden with sweets, a bottle of wine, and two delicate glasses.

“Who?” Maxwell asks.

“Only the most particular and perfectionist smith I ever met. If you get a chance to visit Arl Teagan’s estate in Denerim, there is a magnificent dragonbone armor on display in the main hall. It belonged to Queen Elissa. Wade crafted it from the scales and bones of a high dragon we slew at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

Maxwell stares at her. Josephine pulls a letter out of the pile on her desk, skims its contents, and looks at Leliana skeptically. “His name is Herren?”

Leliana laughs and sets the tray on Josephine’s desk. “Poor Herren. But I’m sure he’ll stop complaining once people learn of Wade’s contribution to our cause.”

Maxwell shakes his head. “Sometimes I forget you actually traveled with her and stopped the Blight. I was only eleven when that happened.”

“And I was just a lay sister in Lothering. Sometimes it feels more like an imagined dream, doesn’t it?” Leliana says softly and with a distant smile. “I also agree that we should hold a celebration of your remarkable feat. Very few people can lay claim to the title of dragonslayer nowadays.”

“I suppose you’re one of them?” Maxwell asks.

“Actually, the honor belongs to King Alistair but he’ll insist it’s Elissa’s. She did blow the horn that summoned the dragon.” Leliana plucks a sweet from the tray and pops it in her mouth. “All those nobles gawking at the dragon’s head and gossiping over their flutes of fine Antivan wine. A perfect opportunity to mine them for secrets.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’ll leave you two to figure it out.”

Leliana laughs outright while Josephine tries valiantly to suppress her giggle. She glances at something on her desk, half-covered by the tray, and leans forward on her elbows. “There’s one more thing I wish to discuss. Do you remember Lydes?”

Maxwell leaves the office still unconvinced that the fate of the Orlesian duchy is an important matter for the Inquisition no matter what Leliana and Josephine say about it. He rubs his temple while dispelling all thoughts of Orlesian politics and looks down the hall at the scaffolding around his door; besides being a more stable place to mount a dragon’s head, Gatsi felt that the location befitted his new title. Already Skyhold’s daily visitors whisper furiously with each other while pointing at the construction and he can only imagine how many more will crowd into the keep once the Frostback is mounted and the celebrations commence. 

Varric calls him over while he’s debating whether or not to go to the undercraft now and face Harritt’s wrath. His fellow Marcher is swamped with paperwork, all sorted into piles weighed down with empty flagons, plates, and what might be Blackwall’s whetstone. 

“From the Merchants Guild?” Maxwell asks, eyeing a shipping contract.

“Wasn’t it obvious?” Varric tilts his head at the door to the library tower. “Someone told me there’s a very loud argument in there that you might want to break up.”

“And why am I the one stopping it?”

“It may involve Sparkler and our resident revered mother.”

His stomach drops. “Oh no.”

“Yeah. So. Might want to get in there before someone starts blowing up books.”

Solas is sitting at his desk in the atrium, glowering at the open texts in front of him. The veilfire torch on the scaffolding is blazing and Maxwell has to look away in order not to be blinded. On the second floor, Dorian and Mother Giselle’s voices ring out, ricocheting off the fresco and bookcases as Dorian offers biting retorts to the revered mother’s scolding. Up in the rookery, agents are leaning against the rail, listening to the argument with no small amount of curiosity.

“Excellent,” Solas says sharply upon spotting Maxwell. “Perhaps _you_ can put an end to their foolish bickering so that we can all have some peace and quiet.”

“How long have they been at it?” Maxwell asks.

“Too long,” the apostate says curtly while the veilfire flares. “If you can, Inquisitor.”

“Right, sorry,” Maxwell says and hurries up the stairs.

“... being clucked at by a hen, evidently.”

“Don’t play the fool with me, young man!” Mother Giselle snaps.

“If I wanted to play the fool, I could be rather more convincing, I assure you,” Dorian says.

Maxwell reaches the floor and cringes at the sight of mages, agents, and even Fiona all huddled to one side of the tower, riveted by the argument. Even Helisma is frowning mightily at Dorian and Mother Giselle from her station, which says a lot about the argument’s volume and longevity. Dorian had said he intended to have words with the revered mother once they returned to Skyhold but Maxwell didn’t expect him to have them so loudly and in front of an audience.

“... your glib tongue does you no credit.”

“You’d be surprised at the credit my tongue gets me, Your Reverence,” Dorian replies smartly.

Maxwell chokes and coughs into his elbow, getting their attention. Suddenly everyone has something to do and Leliana’s agents vanish from their seats at the rail overhead.

“Inquisitor,” Mother Giselle says, sounding very much like a child caught with their hand in the pastries. 

He looks between them. Dorian bristles in place, glaring at the revered mother, while she appears poised if not a little flustered. The way Mother Giselle turns her attention to Maxwell feels a little too deliberate, like she’s trying to provoke Dorian. 

“Is there a problem?” Maxwell asks carefully. 

“Just the usual casting of aspersions on the _Tevinter_ in your midst,” Dorian says. “Never mind the unasked-for meddling into my private affairs behind my back. Go on, Your Reverence. Tell the Inquisitor why you’re really here.”

He raises an eyebrow at the revered mother. “Mother Giselle, we talked about this already.”

She sighs heavily, wearily. “I know, but these were not my words. There were always… concerns about his presence here. Many I spoke to know of your friendship and they worry about his… influence.”

“Influence,” Maxwell says slowly.

“On you, Your Worship.” Her gaze falters. “And your council.”

He takes a deep breath. “And who’s concerned about this?”

“I cannot say. They are… enough that I had to see for myself, on their behalf. But who these people are is not what matters here.”

“No,” Dorian says dryly. “It’s me standing here breathing the same rarified air as you and your precious Lord Inquisitor.”

“That is not true,” Mother Giselle says. “I came here to learn for myself in order to ease their worries.”

“How kind of you to show some concern,” Dorian says. “Almost as much concern as when you decided for yourself how to manage my affairs in hopes that I’ll leave Skyhold.”

“That was not my intention-”

“Then what was it, Your Reverence?”

“Dorian,” Maxwell says before they lunge for each other’s throats again. “I’m sure you made it clear that she isn’t to meddle with your affairs again.”

“ _Very_ clear. In fact, I can write a pamphlet for her to refer to the next time she decides to wade into someone else’s private matters.”

“That won’t be necessary,” the revered mother says quickly. “I apologize for what I did. I only meant well.”

“That’s what they always say,” Dorian replies. “Which is why you came here to make a spectacle out of whatever influence you think I have. Don’t you have anything better to do than to feed your flock’s unfounded fears about the depraved Tevinter magister lurking in the Inquisition’s shadows?”

“My ‘flock’ are the people you see daily. They come here to seek advice, direction, healing, and understanding in these uncertain times. Are they the ones to be mocked? I only sought to put their concerns to rest-”

“It’s called _gossip_ , Your Reverence,” Dorian says.

“-so that they could trust and serve the Inquisition fully. That is why I came here.”

Maxwell prods his temple. He can almost gleam from her careful explanations what sort of rumors she was hearing, which makes him wonder what people have been telling her about the Iron Bull and Solas. Then the thought gives him pause - why hasn’t he heard anything from her about them?

“Mother Giselle, what exactly are those rumors about?”

She hesitates and drops her gaze to the side. “I… cannot say, Your Worship.”

These are not the worries of people seeking her guidance. These are the worries of the well-dressed visitors that mill about the keep almost daily, seeking the influence, power, and prestige that fall under Josephine and Leliana’s purview. What does Mother Giselle intend to gain from reacting to _their_ hushed whispers? 

“From what I can tell, Mother Giselle, you’re only helping spread these… rumors. If you want to further the Inquisition’s cause, I suggest you end them completely.”

Mother Giselle flinches. “I see your point, Your Worship. If they don’t concern you-”

“They don’t.”

“Then I will no longer concern myself with them and persuade others to do the same. You have my apologies.” She bows to him, glances briefly at Dorian, and leaves through the door onto Vivienne’s landing. 

Once the door slams shut, others emerge from wherever they hid themselves away. They return to their tasks, carefully avoiding looking at Maxwell and Dorian. Down below, Solas audily sighs in relief and the veilfire dims.

“Well,” Dorian says. “That was something.”

Where does Maxwell even begin? Twice now Mother Giselle voiced concern about the gossip regarding Dorian’s presence when he’s been with the Inquisition for months. Where is this coming from? Should he start asking Leliana to look into the source of these “rumors” and put an end to it all?

“Does this happen often?” Maxwell asks.

“More than anyone will tell you but not as often as I expected. But nobody really knows their own reputation.”

“What does that mean?” 

Dorian has the audacity to laugh at him. “My father came all the way to Redcliffe in _Ferelden_ because the Magisterium knows your name. They know who you are, which means they know who your advisors are, who your followers are, and that _I_ am a part of it all.”

People on this floor are watching them again. Maxwell wanders into Dorian’s alcove, feeling rattled and tired of his titles and the attention they’re grabbing. “How come I never hear about it?”

“Because we don’t tell you. As if the Inquisitor needs to fret over such things as a peasant’s clueless remarks about the banners he chose to fly on the ramparts.”

“But it’s not about the banners. It’s about you.”

“Which I can handle. You do remember what my life was like before, don’t you?” Dorian says a little too brightly.

“Well I don’t like it,” Maxwell says. He leans on the plush chair’s armrest, arms folded. “Nobody has time to worry about you being here.”

“Not just my being here, sticking my fingers in all the pies,” Dorian says. “But it does make me wonder. Is my influence over you… undue?”

“Perhaps, but I enjoy it,” he replies and Dorian laughs.

“Well, no one will accuse you of being politically astute.”

“After today, I’d be surprised if the thought even crosses their minds.”

With another huff of laughter, Dorian reaches for him. Rather than a kiss, he murmurs, “I’ve been itching for another fight. Tonight?”

Maxwell’s heart races at the lightest brush of Dorian’s lips against his ear. He nods once and shivers when he feels Dorian smile.

“Excellent. Always wanted to see how I’d fare against someone intoxicated on dragon’s blood.”

“ _Dorian._ ”

Dorian’s resulting laughter stays in his head as he leaves the tower and goes to the undercroft to apologize to Harritt for the state of his greatswords.

* * *

He loses track after the sixth drink. It scorches down his throat _like blood and he exhales harshly. He can taste it in his breath, the iron tang and searing flame. She watches, eyes glimmering red in the dark, and slowly comes down from her perch, nostrils flaring, blood dripping from her bared teeth. She prowls around him, her great mass shrouded, blurring no matter how he squints, and her every step shakes the air._

_She is the air. She is the ground under his feet. She is every shuddering breath he takes, the eyes that pierce the dark, ears that hear the faintest skittering in the muffled distance. She thrums, coiled, waiting for her chance._

_He won’t give it to her. He can’t._

* * *

His mouth is dry, like coarse linen, and tastes bitterly sour. He grimaces and immediately regrets making the face; his skull crumples inward like paper and something stabs the soft spot behind his eyes. Why does it hurt so much? What did he do-

The Herald’s Rest. Krem listening rapturously to Maryden, ignoring the other Chargers’ sniggers. Sera sitting on the rail, feet swinging while she eats cookies and rains crumbs on people. The Iron Bull. What did he call it? Maraas….

“We really need to expand your collection to authors that aren’t Chantry brothers or sisters.”

Maxwell squeezes his eyes shut and listens to Dorian turn the page of whatever book he’s holding. “Thought you didn’t mind Genitivi,” he says hoarsely. His throat is raw and his mouth feels like he swallowed a fistful of sand. He needs water… if he can make himself sit up.

“Still Chantry. Wasn’t there a shipment from an archive some weeks back? I should take a look. Who knows what these people tried to bury under their agendas.”

Right. “Dorian. Why are you here?”

“Would be terribly unfortunate if the Inquisitor choked on his own vomit. Suppose we should all thank the Maker you’re not the type to act out when you’re… what was that saying? ‘Three sheets to the wind’?”

Maxwell curls into himself and buries his face under his arms. “Bull and I were drinking.”

“At least you remember something.”

“Wanted to celebrate. Dragons. He called them… something. Dragons. And the Qun.” He tries to recall more but the pounding behind his eyes worsens. “Can’t remember.”

“You don’t recall complimenting Bull on his giant dragonish horns? Or his massive arms and hands? Or complaining about how many steps it takes to reach your main hall? Or sprawling in your little throne, declaring to the known world your judgment on the very dead Frostback for daring to breathe fire on you?”

“You’re joking.”

Dorian laughs a little too loudly. “It was quite amusing. You had so many things to say about me. Do I really smell that good?”

He groans. “ _Fuck._ ”

“Ah, so the Inquisitor does swear.”

“Dorian, I swear.”

“I know you do.” Dorian chuckles and turns the page. “I tease you too much. But don’t worry, it was late enough and the usual sort that keeps us company is very good at holding your secrets.” He pauses. “Mine, too, I suppose.”

Maxwell finally cracks his eyes open to behold a rare cloudy morning. Black dots streak across the sky - ravens, bringing word to Leliana from her agents all over southern Thedas. There are more birds today than yesterday and a pit forms in his unsettled stomach. Did something happen? Why wasn’t he summoned?

“No one’s asked me for anything?” 

“A raven may have peered through the window but no, nobody has. A third of Skyhold _did_ watch you match Iron Bull drink for drink. They probably decided to show you some mercy by giving you an extra hour to sleep it off.”

He really should get out of bed, though. Corypheus isn’t going to wait for a hungover Inquisitor. He slowly sits up and his stomach lurches. He buries his face in his hands and tries to breathe through the nausea gathering at the back of his throat. Footsteps cross the floor to his side and he looks up to see a little vial in Dorian’s outstretched hand.

“I could become quite wealthy selling these all over Thedas,” Dorian says nonchalantly while Maxwell takes it and swallows its bitter herby contents. “Oh I’m sure others have been peddling their own brews and swearing on Andraste’s thumb that they work, but I could make a pretty copper claiming the Inquisitor uses mine exclusively.”

“That’s because you’re the only one who gives them to me,” Maxwell says. He grimaces trying to suck out the grassy aftertaste from between his teeth. His stomach settles, though, and the headache lessens to a dull throb. He can string his thoughts together again. “And when do you plan to open business?”

“Never, unfortunately. You see, I’m rather preoccupied with helping the Inquisitor save Thedas from an ancient evil. Much better use of my time and talents.”

Dorian takes the empty vial from him and, after a moment’s hesitation, reaches over and drags his fingers lightly through Maxwell’s unruly hair. The motions are soothing and Maxwell relaxes, humming softly while warmth curls in his chest. He could doze off like this but Dorian abruptly pulls away, startling him.

“I just remembered I’m supposed to meet Enchanter Fiona about now,” Dorian says. He doesn’t quite meet Maxwell’s raised eyebrow and his face is noticeably darker. “I shouldn’t keep her waiting and lowering her already low opinion of me.”

“Since when did you care about such things?” he asks, confused. “And why would she think that?”

“She is your ally and an elf, and I am Tevinter. It makes for some awkward moments in the library but we get by. Somehow.” Dorian kisses him lightly and steps back. “Let me know if someone else asks you to kill the dragon in their backyard.”

He slips away before Maxwell can get a word in, leaving him in a familiar and discomfiting situation. He swallows hard to push down the aching bitter void in the back of his throat and gets out of bed.

Someone knocks on the door while he’s examining an embroidered vest Josephine had commissioned for his ridiculous wardrobe. _Not a moment too soon,_ he thinks, recalling the flurry of ravens, and tosses it on his unmade bed. He heads downstairs while tying a faded dark blue and grey sash around his waist and opens the door. Leliana’s agent salutes.

“Your Worship,” he says. “Sister Nightingale requests your presence in the war room.”

“Did she say why?”

“Seeker business.”

The two former Hands of the Divine are talking tersely over the map of southern Thedas in the war room. Crumpled missives cover part of it and some of them are stained dark with what looks like blood. Standing awkwardly to the side is the templar Delrin Barris and he’s the one who quickly straightens and salutes Maxwell.

“Your Worship,” he says, and the two women stop their argument.

Maxwell nods to the Fereldan and looks at Cassandra. “You found the other Seekers?”

“Thanks to Leliana and Josephine,” she replies. “Otherwise, it would have been impossible.”

“My agents discovered Seekers traveling into Ferelden one by one and then vanishing without a trace,” Leliana says. “Josie then happened upon rumors regarding a Bann Loren, who hasn’t been heard from in many months. The timing of his silence was suspicious so I had Argent trace his last steps. That led us to Bann Alfstanna, the last person to see him. She told me that on her last visit to his castle, it was occupied by strange new guards. From her description of them, they sounded like templars.”

“Except they’d have no reason to take over Bann Loren’s lands,” Barris says, “and no one was sent out of Therinfal during the… process. They must be wearing templar armor to disguise themselves.”

“Is Bann Loren connected to the Seekers?” Maxwell asks.

Leliana looks to the bloodstained missives. “My agents followed a Seeker onto his lands. They tried to enter Caer Oswin but lost two and had to retreat. Whoever’s occupying the fortress doesn’t want anyone to discover them.”

“The Lord Seeker was the one who called the templars to Therinfal,” Maxwell says. “He could be the one summoning other Seekers to Caer Oswin.”

“I know,” Cassandra says with a troubled tone. “But I don’t know what he and Corypheus are trying to achieve. Lucius knows we can’t be corrupted in the same manner.”

“What does that mean?” 

“Seekers do not use lyrium,” she says with a quick glance at Barris. “Corypheus would not be able to force red lyrium on us.”

But corruption doesn’t just mean consuming it to gain inhumane power and abilities. Maxwell had seen it a year into the future underneath Redcliffe. “Not the way you think it.”

“You mean Redcliffe,” Leliana says. “Perhaps it has nothing to do with bringing the Seekers into the fold. Perhaps he means to remove them entirely. No one’s seen the Seekers leave Caer Oswin.”

“What does Redcliffe have to do with the Seekers?” Barris asks. 

“It’s a long story,” Maxwell says with a grimace. “But why bring them to a Fereldan bann’s castle? Why go through all that effort just to kill them?”

“We are a small order,” Cassandra says, “and we were… scattered trying to contain the war. But you’re right, this is too much unnecessary effort just to remove us. Something else is happening there and I intend to find out. And if Lucius is there….”

No wonder Barris is here. He’s one of the last to see the Lord Seeker before Samson took over the Order. Maxwell turns to the dark Fereldan. “You said you didn’t see him in the last weeks before the Red Templars left Therinfal, didn’t you?”

Barris nods. “He would only see a handful of knight-captains. They were the ones who started handing out the-” The templar hesitates. “I never gave it much thought until Seeker Cassandra asked but I know Lord Seeker Lucius had a hand in this. If you’ll permit me, Seeker, I’d like to come with you to Caer Oswin. I know Bann Loren’s lands like my father’s, including Caer Oswin.”

“I should’ve asked you first before I sent my agents out,” Leliana says.

“Are you sure?” Maxwell asks.

“I am. I need answers.”

“I can help.” Cole is sitting on the table, legs swinging back and forth, head tilted to the marker sitting on top of Caer Oswin. “Hurt and anger and confusion and pain. I can help make them go away.”

“Maker,” Cassandra breathes out, letting go of the dagger nestled in the back of her belt. “I don’t like repeating myself, Cole.”

“I know, I’m sorry. But I can help.”

“He was there, too,” Barris says. He’s the only one unfazed by Cole’s unexpected appearance. “He saw what happened, what the red lyrium did to us. And if Lord Seeker is there, it’s only fair that he hears what the man has to say for himself.”

“If he is hurting, I can help. The words don’t matter.”

“They matter to me, Cole,” Cassandra says. “They tell me why he did what he did. Trevelyan, I want to leave within two hours. I’m putting an end to this.”

He nods. “Should I call in the others?”

“No. I want discretion. The four of us and Leliana’s agents should be enough.”

“Argent will lead the way,” Leliana says. “She’ll meet you at the gate.”

When Maxwell goes up to the library an hour later, Dorian isn’t there. Puzzled, he circles the floor before noticing that Fiona isn’t here either and then he remembers what Dorian said earlier this morning. With a sigh, he borrows Helisma’s quill and a piece of paper. He scribbles a note and tucks it in between the pages of an old Tevinter text sitting in the armchair.

On the way out of the library tower, he sees Solas kneeling on the scaffolding to carefully paint a great dragon into the growing fresco. Something roars in the back of his head and he shakes it away while leaving the atrium.

* * *

No one can stop staring at the book in Cassandra’s hands. Even she doesn’t seem to believe she’s holding it; her fingers would trace the embossed all-seeing eye on the faded leather cover every few minutes just to be sure it’s what the former Lord Seeker said it was. He claimed it held all of the Seekers’ secrets and that if she read it, she would understand why he betrayed and sold them out to a violently extremist cult. She would understand why he broke her order just like he broke Barris’s.

Maxwell isn’t forgetting the look on Cassandra’s face as she cut down Lucius Corin anytime soon.

“The secrets go deep,” Cole murmurs. “Even between them, they don’t see. They don’t know what they say they are.”

“What are they?” Barris asks.

“Alone, and afraid.”

A week goes by at an agonizingly slow and quiet pace, which might be a welcome respite for the others but not for Maxwell. Caer Oswin wasn’t what anyone expected and he almost wishes Leliana’s agents had pushed their way into the castle. He wishes he knew about the red lyrium before he followed Barris inside through the servants’ entrance and heard the first shivers of it in the dusty dark. 

He wonders if Barris heard it, too, and knew what was waiting for them. The templar has barely said a word except to talk with Cole, the only other person who knows what happened at Therinfal Redoubt. Did Barris find his answers at Caer Oswin or is he still wondering why the Lord Seeker chose to destroy the Templar Order?

Is Cassandra still wondering? She spends most of the week, whether on horseback or by the campfire, reading with intense concentration, the furrow between her brow deepening with every page. Some days she’ll shut the book after an hour’s reading and stuff it back in her saddlebag, then stare off into the distance with a grim frown until nightfall. On the seventh night, at a watchtower at the foot of the Frostbacks, she reads for two hours and then slams the book shut and gets up to search for a bottle of ale.

Maxwell starts when she sits down heavily in front of him and sets the bottle on the table. He leans to the side to see the Seekers’ book of secrets sitting unattended by the fireplace. He turns his attention back to the Seeker when she proceeds to pull the cork and drink nearly half the bottle in seconds.

“Cassandra?” he asks. “Are you all right?”

She exhales wetly and stares at the straw-covered floor. “No, I am not.”

“What is it? I mean, you don’t have to say if it’s Seeker business-”

“No, you should know,” she replies, “though I’m still… processing what I’ve been reading.” She rubs at her left temple as if to ward off a headache. “I turn every page and I am faced with more questions about myself and the Seekers. More doubts about the oath we took, the years of training, the vigil… they kept everything from us. Every Lord and Lady Seeker withheld these truths about who we are, and it destroyed us.”

“You’re still alive, and there must be other Seekers-”

“The Order as I know it is finished. Lucius made sure of that.” She drinks, two audible swallows, and wipes her mouth. “He’s been luring others to Caer Oswin for a _year_. Who knows how many are left now. If they’re still alive. If they want to be found.”

“You could ask Leliana,” Maxwell suggests but she shakes her head vigorously.

“No. Our priority is stopping Corypheus. Every resource, every asset, should be used for that. Everyone knows where I am. If others wish to find me, they know where Skyhold is. And if they come, I will tell them everything. I will tell them what Lucius did to us and why.” Her knuckles whiten around the brown bottle. “I should’ve known something was wrong when he came to Val Royeaux and ended the Nevarran Accord. I should’ve known when he summoned every templar to Therinfal Redoubt without explanation. I should’ve suspected him of wrongdoing. How did I not see it?”

“To be fair, we were in the middle of a war, the Divine just died, the Breach happened, and you found me with this,” Maxwell says, turning his left hand up to show the anchor’s glimmering light. “Nobody knew what was going on and nothing made sense anymore.”

“Like the Lord Seeker killing off his fellow Seekers. He said we were abominations, unfit to live in a corrupt world. He said I would understand why the Seekers had to end once I read the truth.”

“What did the book say?”

“I’m not there yet,” Cassandra admits. “But what I read so far… we have a deeper connection to the Rite of Tranquility than what we were told. That would explain Lord Seeker Lambert’s actions when Divine Justinia started her investigation into the matter.”

“Isn’t that what started the mage-templar war?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Maxwell sees Cole’s hat tilting to the side. The spirit is sitting in the shadows, knees under his chin, watching and listening under the wide brim. He seems keen on whatever they’re discussing, and Maxwell wonders if he knows something that they don’t. 

“Yes,” Cassandra says. “If whatever he was hiding from Justinia and the Circles is in that book… that book may have stopped the war from ever happening.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple,” Maxwell says, thinking about what he was told and what he saw.

She sighs and takes another drink. “Probably not, but at least I would be able to _see_. Unlike Leliana and Josephine, I can’t immediately glean five meanings from one word or action. I can’t understand fully Lucius’s actions until I read the truth for myself.”

“And then what?” Maxwell asks.

“I don’t know. I could try to rebuild the Seekers, or let the order die.”

He sits forward, frowning. “Do you really think that?”

“I’ll need to finish the book first, and consult with others. This decision won’t be mine alone,” she says. She considers finishing her ale and then pushes the bottle aside to give Maxwell her full attention. “I watched you at Caer Oswin. For a newly initiated reaver, you showed far more restraint than I expected.”

“Did Dorian put you up to this?” Cassandra raises an eyebrow. “He asked me already. Should I expect questions from everyone?”

“I would have asked if you decided to train as a templar or a Warden,” she replies. “Dorian isn't the only one concerned for your well-being.”

“Oh,” he says softly.

Her smile is more sisterly, a strange but welcome sight. “They all have their dangers and you must be aware of them at all times.”

“I know,” Maxwell says wearily. “I didn’t do this because I wanted power. I’m just tired of being afraid.”

She huffs. “Choosing the way of the reaver is one way to solve that.”

“You almost died,” he says and she becomes solemn. “You and Dorian. If that spirit hadn’t come when it did… I can’t let that happen again.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t try,” he replies tightly. “If the Red Templars want you dead, they’ll have to go through me first.”

She blinks at him, surprised, and then smiles. “Thank you.” She gets to her feet and picks up her bottle. “Get some rest, Trevelyan. I want to reach Skyhold before dark tomorrow.”

“Don’t stay up too late,” he says. He watches her pour the rest of the ale into the fireplace and return to her book, then gets up as well and goes up the spiraling staircase to the soldiers’ quarters.

He wakes up hours later, to near darkness and Barris thrashing about in a nearby bed. Maxwell stumbles out of his, left hand held high to light the way through the narrow room, and tries to shake him awake. Barris bolts upright, eyes bright red, and something sings in the stillness. Maxwell stumbles back with a sharp gasp and collides with an empty cot.

“What was that?” Cassandra’s voice demands somewhere to Maxwell’s right.

Barris bows his head. “It was me, Seeker. His Worship tried to wake me and… I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” she says. “Trevelyan?”

“I’m all right,” Maxwell says. He no longer hears it but it still chimes in his head, prickling through his sluggish scattered thoughts. “Just surprised me, that’s all.”

He hears her turn over in her bed, probably putting her back to them. He sighs and rubs his tired eyes, wondering if he can go back to sleep just as easily. Before he can get up, Barris quietly says, “Your Worship, if I may?”

“It’s late for formalities,” he says, remembering the countless times he reminded Captain Katarin not to address him that way. “You can call me Trevelyan.” Barris is uncomfortably silent. “After Caer Oswin, I think you earned the right.”

The Fereldan shudders audibly. “Maker, I wish I never went there. I thought I’d gotten past Therinfal but what those… those cultists did to Bann Loren and that Seeker… it all came back.” His voice quavers and he has to stop and press a hand to his heaving chest. “I can’t stop thinking or dreaming about it. Can’t stop remembering how it felt, how the red lyrium… it’s no way for anyone to die. That Seeker deserved better.”

“They all did,” Maxwell says. “I’m… sorry you had to see that, Barris.”

“I’m sorry, too.” The silence that follows seems to swell, pressing against the back of Maxwell’s throat and constricting his lungs. He decides to bid the templar a good night but Barris suddenly says, “I’m not the only one, am I?”

So Barris knew all along. He knew what to look for and he saw it in the Inquisitor as they crawled through Caer Oswin and beheld its horrors. Maxwell could dismiss it, act like the leader of the Inquisition is above such things, but no one who encounters red lyrium the way he and Barris had can lie about it. So he says, “No, you’re not.”

To his credit, Barris doesn’t ask for details. He moves to the edge of his bed and sits forward, elbows on his knees. When he lifts his head, Maxwell can still see a faint reddish glow in his eyes. “How do you sleep at night? How do you... hear it and still function?”

What should he say? Should he tell Barris about his nightmares and the reason why he personally chased a dragon in the Hinterlands? Less than a handful of people know red lyrium is at the root of his troubles and he should keep it that way, but he can’t let Barris suffer this alone. The man had seen too much and been through too much; he should by all rights be dead but he is still here, serving the Inquisition. He deserves at least some measure of comfort and clarity.

He swallows hard. “I don’t always. Sometimes I have… really bad nights and go hit things in the practice ring to tire myself out. It helps me sleep. But I’ll never stop hearing it. I was only around it for a few hours but it was still too many.”

“Raw lyrium will drive anyone mad in minutes. We learn how to handle it safely for our sake and for the mages’, but red lyrium… it’s not like anything I’ve ever seen. When others started taking it, they didn’t sound… right. And that Seeker, Maker, what it did to him. I can’t forget it.”

In the dark, it is easy to remember Daniel’s gaunt face staring up at him, black veins marking his skin as he whispered with cracked lips the horrors that took place in Caer Oswin, the horrors that were committed on him. Krem’s report described the red lyrium bursting from the corpses they found at Therinfal. He wondered if that’s how they died.

“I don’t think anyone will,” he says.

“I fought Red Templars on my missions. Men and women who were my brethren once. They weren’t human anymore. Made me think I’m showing them mercy by striking them down, but I wish it didn’t have to be that way.” Barris is quiet for a moment, thinking. “Your - ser, if you’ll permit me, I’d like to have a hand in stopping these red lyrium shipments across Thedas. I know about the operations in the Emerald Graves. There must be more all over Ferelden and Orlais. I want to help.”

“You don’t need my permission, Barris. Ask Sister Leliana when we get back. I’m sure she’ll be happy to have your help and expertise.”

“Thank you, ser. And thank you for talking with me about this. Knowing I’m not alone, it helps.”

“It helps me, too,” Maxwell says quietly. _“Started after Redcliffe, didn’t it?”_ “If you ever need to talk, come find me.” Barris tilts his head incredulously. “I mean it.”

“I will. Thank you.”

There’s a dark shape in the empty bed next to Maxwell’s rumpled one. Cole’s wide-brimmed hat tilts up at him and he wonders if Cole takes it off when he sleeps. If he sleeps. Maxwell can’t recall ever seeing the spirit sleep.

“You understand,” Cole says softly.

He sits heavily on his bed. “I think you know why.”

“They rooted it so deep so it would always be there. It would always grow in the walls and air, here and in dreams. ‘But don’t worry. I’m here. I’ll protect you.’”

A tremor shivers up his spine. “Cole.”

“I’m sorry. I just wanted you to remember, but you only remember fear.”

Maxwell drags a hand down his face. “I’ll be fine. Make sure Barris is, too.”

“Mountains weather storms and fall when hollowed. You keep him standing. I can help.”

Maxwell is exhausted in the morning, unable to shake off the red echo in the back of his mind. Both Cassandra and Barris look bright and alert, though, as they ready for the long ride through the mountains to Skyhold. He can live with that.

* * *

There are new merchants in Skyhold’s lower courtyard, masked men and women doing brisk business with the fortress’s inhabitants and visitors. The riot of Orlesian colors throws Maxwell off-guard and he can only stare while Dennett and his stablehands lead the mounts away.

“Josephine’s doing,” Cassandra says. She clutches her saddlebags’ precious contents. “When you have time, Trevelyan, find me in the armory. There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

He nods and watches her climb the stairs to the upper courtyard. Cole and Leliana’s agents are already gone while Barris is greeting other templars who aren’t on assignment. Perhaps he is telling them to meet him later for drinks and a quiet talk about the former Lord Seeker. If Maxwell squints, he can make out the Iron Bull’s great horns up on the battlements; the Qunari is talking to Blackwall while pointing at something in the distance.

A familiar color in a merchant’s stall catches Maxwell’s eye. He walks over to the stall and stares at the wares while his stomach twists into aching knots.

“Your Worship,” the Orlesian merchant says with a small bow. Her ruffles and mask hide everything but he hears her sly smile. “I am Bonny Sims, head of the tradesmen merchants guild. Something suits your fancy?”

_Orlesians_ , he thinks but fondly. Clever on her part finding the one thing that would catch the Inquisitor’s eye. He reaches over to run a finger down a bolt of stormy sea blue silk, brocaded with silver waves like the ones crashing against the cliffs along the Waking Sea.

“How did you get these?” he asks.

“I have my ways.”

He quirks an eyebrow and she barely manages to stifle her laugh. “I once made the acquaintance of a Lady Montfort, someone with striking features and an Ostwickian accent. I said I had plans to take my business to Skyhold and she offered a few suggestions on what to sell there.”

“So she did.” He picks up another silk sash, a deep rich red patterned with silver owls. Evelyn comes to mind, refusing to part with her muddied and mended sash as they wandered north from the Ostwick Circle. She probably still has it - if she’s still alive. “Did Lady Montfort say anything else?”

“Only that you’ll also appreciate this.” Bonny Sims pulls out a bottle sealed with wax. “This, she paid for. The silks are two sovereigns each.”

“They go for more than that in Ostwick,” he says immediately and then mentally kicks himself.

Thankfully, she only laughs. “I have plenty of other wares selling at my usual prices if you wish to be fair. But this price is only for you, Inquisitor, as thanks for what you do for us.”

He returns to his quarters six sovereigns poorer and torn between feeling grateful to Adelyn and wistful for Ostwick’s mountains and sea fog. He tosses his belongings on the couch, sets the bottle on a dresser, and stares at the new stack of books on his cluttered desk. There’s a folded note on top.

_meet me in the courtyard tonight_

Smiling, Maxwell tucks it away and heads back down to the main hall to meet Cassandra at the armory. When asked, a blacksmith points up the wooden stairs to the second floor and he climbs the steps to see the Seeker sitting at a table, staring at the book in front of her. She looks up at him and nods to the chair across from her.

“What is it?” he asks. “What did you find?”

This time she has an answer. “The truth. The reason why Lucius turned on us. The reason why he sided with those cultists. It even… what do you know about the Rite of Tranquility?”

* * *

“Imagine what would happen if the Magisterium found out,” Dorian says while walking down the stairs to the empty practice ring. “The uproar it would cause if they learned there was a way to reverse the Rite.”

“Which is why Cassandra wants to keep it quiet until she knows she can help the mages coming out of it.”

“Divine Justinia’s investigation into this method of control is what started the war, didn’t it? Someone found a way to reverse it, the templars tried to suppress the knowledge, and the Circles revolted in response.”

“I don’t know all the details,” Maxwell says, “but that was it. How did you know?”

“Your one-time Warden, former Grand Enchanter, and advisor on all things arcane,” Dorian replies. “I had questions, she had answers.”

“What were you two doing while I was gone?”

Dorian shrugs. “Discussing theories about the various schools of magic and disciplines. She wanted to better understand the Venatori and I wanted new ideas on spellcasting and summoning spirits. It was worth the hours of her glowering at my very existence, though I think I’m finally in her good graces.”

“I’m impressed.”

Maxwell shouldn’t be surprised by the mages standing around in the courtyard and the nightwatch up on the battlements, leaning on the wall like they’ve been waiting. He wonders who’s been telling them that he and Dorian would be taking over the practice ring at midnight. He also wonders what Cullen or Captain Katarin would say if they saw the nightwatch slacking off like this.

“Just remember not to turn into a dragon when I accidentally set you on fire,” Dorian says cheekily, patting Maxwell’s shoulder before walking to the far end of the practice ring. Tyrdda’s staff swings in his hand, the stone blazing like flame.

“Really,” Maxwell says flatly and the mage laughs.

Their late night spectators whisper furiously while he gives his dinged iron sword a few swings to familiarize himself with its weight and balance. Already he feels heat in his blood, the dragon unfolding from slumber in anticipation of a fight. Skyhold knows he’s been training with Thram but not the details so they don’t know what they’re about to witness. He hopes he doesn’t give himself away like he did in the shadow of the dead Frostback.

Like usual, the only warning Dorian gives is a glowing green barrier wrapping around them. He scatters glyphs all over the ground and then summons a writhing purple cloud. Maxwell watches uncertainly and then quickly backpedals when the cloud twists into a mass of clicking beady-eyed spiders. He trips over an ice mine and it explodes, spraying him and the nearest mages with ice shards. They gasp as he picks himself up and then again when Dorian slings lightning at his feet.

He throws himself out of the way and rolls back up, sword in hand. Something swells at the back of his throat and he huffs, annoyed, before storming forward. He follows Dorian around the ring, shrugging off spells and skirting around the other mines. He knows as well as anyone that Dorian can’t evade him forever and the thought propels him forward; he closes the distance rapidly and swings hard.

Sparks fly when Dorian blocks the blow with his staff. Maxwell stumbles back, ducks a swing at his head, and strikes again. Dorian twists away at the last second, expecting momentum to carry Maxwell past him. He doesn’t expect Maxwell to turn sharply on the balls of his feet and continue after him. A wall of ice rises between them and Maxwell stabs it with his sword, weakening it. He wrenches his blade back and kicks through the barrier, then ducks a barrage of fire. He rises back up to be confronted by another swirling cloud of spirits. Shapes reach out for him, wailing in his head, but something roars back furiously and he cuts through the spell.

“ _Fasta vass_!” Dorian swears, backing away and throwing out more mines. “Now you’re really asking for it!”

“Try me,” Maxwell replies, grinning, and hefts his greatsword.

Lightning arcs between them, rooting him to the spot and driving air out of his lungs. The barrier mitigates most of its effects but Maxwell still struggles to raise his sword up to deflect the fireball flying at his face. There’s a lurching in his veins, a fury carrying him forward, and he charges the mage. Dorian raises his hand to his temple and a telekinetic wave shoves Maxwell back. He shakes his head and then twists around another storm of energy, shrugging off the electricity licking across his shoulders and back.

Spirits swirl around him, writhing, twisting into elongated clawed shapes. He flinches when one reaches out with a long jointed leg and cuts through it. It vanishes and another takes its place, multifaceted like the arm of a shadowy Red Templar. Furious, he slams his sword pommel through it and turns to swing through another twisting shape. His sword collides with Tyrdda’s staff.

This time, he won’t be pushed away. When Dorian tries to throw him back with another telekinetic blast, Maxwell rams his shoulder into the mage, interrupting the spell and forcing Dorian back. He tries to follow through with a quick slash but Dorian easily deflects the strike and twists around him. Maxwell follows him back across the practice ring, blocking his staff blade while trying to land an incapacitating blow. Magic prickles on his tongue and in his lungs as he tries to wear Dorian down.

They collide every several seconds, Dorian trying to disengage and disorient while Maxwell presses the attack. They know full well that he’ll win if Dorian can’t get enough distance between them and Maxwell can’t let that drop his guard down. The ground takes on a glassy sheen and he dodges the patch of ice, swinging his sword up to stop Dorian from casting another spell. Dorian activates a fire mine, pulling Maxwell’s attention away long enough to try to knock him down with a spirit bolt. Maxwell quickly deflects it with the flat of his sword and runs after him, forcing Dorian to use his staff blade to keep him at bay. 

Distracted, Dorian doesn’t see the fence behind him until he crashes into it. He quickly blocks Maxwell’s greatsword but Maxwell puts all his weight behind it instead of letting Dorian redirect it. When Dorian tries to shove him back, Maxwell wedges his knee between Dorian’s and pins him to the spot.

Maxwell grins. “I win.”

“So you did,” Dorian replies breathlessly.

Neither moves. Sweat drips down Maxwell’s face and his lungs burn with every ragged breath, but he can’t bring himself to back off or tear his eyes away from Dorian’s. There’s a thrumming in his veins, a writhing hungry thing pressing against its confines. It watches keenly the swollen pupils of Dorian’s eyes and his parted sweat-slick lips, feels every heaving breath, the searing line of the body pressed up against Maxwell. Maxwell swallows hard and-

Someone coughs and he jerks his head around to stare at the people standing in the courtyard.

“I think we’re needed elsewhere,” someone says. Rion, with the Ostwickian accent. One of Fiona’s agents. “Nobody saw anything.”

“Definitely didn’t,” a mage agrees fervently. “Didn’t see a thing.”

Maxwell watches them pile back inside one of the towers before looking up at the battlements. The patrol isn’t watching anymore; they’re walking the wall and paying no mind to what’s going on down below in the courtyard. There’s a soft exhale against his face and he looks at the mage.

“Reaving suits you,” Dorian says. His face is dark from exertion and his hair sticks to his forehead. He’s a wild mess, so unlike his normally polished self, and Maxwell doesn’t know what to think. Seconds pass and Dorian shifts against him. “Are you going to move or….”

“Don’t know,” Maxwell breathes out and feels Dorian shudder. “Should I?”

Dorian curses unintelligibly and squeezes his eyes shut. “Eventually. Sooner is better.”

He blinks and then realizes he’s crushing the other man. He quickly steps back and Dorian sags against the fence, rubbing his damp face with a trembling hand. “Maker… thought I was losing my mind.”

“I’m sorry,” Maxwell says. “Did I hurt you?”

“Did you - are you - no. Well, maybe my pride. Watching you cut through my hexes was both inspiring and disheartening, which I didn’t think was possible.”

Dorian limps out of the practice ring to the armory well. Maxwell follows closely, worried, trying to remember when Dorian hurt his leg during their fight. He pulls up a bucket of icy water and sits on the damp stone, watches Dorian douse his head with it and then stare down into the well’s depths.

“What is it?” Maxwell asks tentatively.

The mage wipes water off his face and sighs. “It’s nothing. I studied necromancy for years and apparently all one needs is a dose of dragon blood to resist my nightmare-inducing specialties. I just hope nobody else finds them that easy to overcome.”

“But it wasn’t like you wanted to hurt me.”

“No, I suppose not. I could’ve summoned some truly intimidating spirits but that would’ve made a poor impression on our audience.” Dorian pushes the bucket to him. He waits for another minute, then heaves another sigh and looks at Maxwell. “Back there, when you - when - shit, never mind. At least I know my worries were unfounded. You seem to know what you’re doing.”

Maxwell lowers the empty bucket. “So you did ask Cassandra about me.”

“She was going to ‘evaluate’ you anyway, but why wouldn’t I? She’s a Pentaghast. I may have my books but have you seen her family tree? There are at least four books in the library on that family and I read every single entry on the dragon hunters, then cross-referenced them with other texts-”

Maxwell reaches over and pulls Dorian in by one of the leather straps criss-crossing his body. Dorian smiles against his mouth and deepens the kiss, cradling his face with damp hot hands. He smells and taste of magic, a staticky thrum that sparks with each frictious slide and makes Maxwell shiver.

“I did miss you,” Dorian murmurs while peppering his mouth and face and neck with kisses. “All I had keeping me company was an irritable enchanter and that hobo apostate and your terrifying spymaster. I was terribly bored. Almost set Solas’s chair on fire just to see what would happen.”

“That would’ve been a bad idea,” Maxwell says, breathless, hot all over and desperate.

“Was either that or Mother Giselle’s hat,” Dorian says and Maxwell laughs. “But I wasn’t about to get thrown out of Skyhold for offending her sensibilities even further. Merely existing within thirty feet of her seems to do the job.”

“You’re terrible.”

“I’m not a nice man,” Dorian agrees and kisses him again. “We should do this again.”

“We’ve been doing this for months.”

“I mean before… Redcliffe, the second time,” the mage says. He presses one last kiss and lets Maxwell go. “Remind me to find something to do that doesn’t involving swinging swords at my head and a nosy audience.”

“I’m sure you’ll come up with something soon enough,” Maxwell replies while emptying the bucket on the grass growing around the well. 

“Sadly, it’ll have to wait. Overheard a few agents chatting about Harding’s current assignment earlier this morning. Seems the Inquisition will be moving out soon.” Dorian hums thoughtfully. “Feels like an age went by since we splashed into that soggy Fereldan swamp to find a fugitive Warden.”

It does feel like a hundred years since he met the Champion of Kirkwall and learned of an insidious plot involving the Wardens’ unexplained disappearance. He wonders what news awaits him in the morning and what he’ll find in the Western Approach. 

“And I was hoping to catch my breath after fighting a Lord Seeker in a bann’s castle,” Maxwell sighs. “What do you think we’ll find?”

“Nothing good. Answers to fill in the blanks, hopefully. We may know how Corypheus won the war but not the finer details. Whatever that Warden found in the Approach could give us what we need to stop that blight from ending the world.”

“I hope so.”

* * *

Maxwell leaves the stables with few answers from Blackwall about the Wardens’ history with the Western Approach that he didn’t already read in a book and collides with an agent halfway up the steps to the upper courtyard. The agent smiles nervously, brown eyes darting around while she shoves a folded note into Maxwell’s hands.

“From Sister Nightingale, Your Worship,” she says. “In private, if you will. She insists.”

“Thank… you?” He turns to watch the agent hop down the steps three at a time, tucks the note inside his sash, and continues up to the main hall.

Varric waves him over while shuffling a stack of loose papers. Maxwell peers at the top page. “One of your serials?”

“The only one worth spending my time on. ‘I’m busy helping the Inquisitor save the world’ isn’t excuse enough for my publisher. Anyway, Nightingale got something back from the Approach and wants both of us there. I don’t know what she needs _me_ for but it doesn’t sound like good news.”

“Of course it’s not,” Maxwell sighs and follows the dwarf to the war room.

Everybody else is already there, congregating around the giant map of Thedas. Maxwell raises an eyebrow at Dorian standing near the western half of the map; the mage is sifting through various missives with a deep frown. Cassandra’s leaning on the table, willing the map to catch fire with her eyes, and Fiona is talking tersely with Leliana about something. It must be about the Wardens.

“Inquisitor. Varric,” Cullen says.

“Is it Stroud?” Maxwell asks, peering at the markers placed all around the map.

“If he’s there, the scouts haven’t found him,” Leliana replies. “Do you remember the meeting we had a month after you returned from Crestwood? My people heard rumors of travelers going to the Approach in suspiciously large numbers.”

“I… remember?” So much happened since his encounter with Stroud. “You sent Captain Rylen west, didn’t you?”

“Three weeks ago, he reported a large force of Wardens entering the Approach here,” Cullen says, pointing to a spot at the outskirts of western Orlais. “His men saw others entering here and here. The Approach has no meaning to anyone outside of the Wardens and us so he started tracking them.”

“Harding arrived not long after and went ahead to investigate.” Leliana cocks her head to the crinkled papers in Dorian’s hands. “Let’s just say we found the Venatori.”

“Tevinter had a significant presence here before the First Blight.” Dorian hands the messages back to her. “From what I remember, they used the Approach for magical experiments. The Venatori could be searching for relics to use in their little crusade against the world.”

“Harding and Rylen are setting up and fortifying outposts as we speak,” Cullen says. “But they’re in trouble. They’ve been losing men to the darkspawn that come out at night.”

Varric blanches. “Thought they all went underground when the Blight ended.”

“You would think,” Leliana replies. “Hawke arrived in the Approach five days ago. He’s working with Harding to determine what the Venatori are doing there. Varric, what do you know about White Claws?”

“Not much except that they’re smugglers and poachers. They don’t operate in the Marches anyway so I don’t pay much attention to them. Why?”

“Venatori are using them for something. I was hoping you’d have ideas.”

Josephine clears her throat. “I called in a few favors from the nobles living near the Approach. They confirmed the reports and agreed to offer aid and to clear the road for us.”

“Which is important because we need to move quickly,” Cullen says, tracing the path from Skyhold along the Imperial Highway to the desert with his finger. “The Venatori have the advantage right now. If you press the pace, you can reach Rylen and Harding in a little over two weeks.”

“How soon are we ready to leave?” Maxwell asks.

“Tonight,” Cullen says, and Maxwell raises an eyebrow. Dorian heaves a loud sigh and Varric’s shoulders slump. “Rylen can only do so much on his own against them.”

“Did you tell the others?”

“We’re sending the word out now.” The commander huffs at a thought. “Morris won’t be pleased.”

“Remember, Inquisitor,” Fiona says. She’s staring at a marker at the edge of the Western Approach. “The Wardens are desperate. Stopping the Blight is our duty, one that takes precedence over everything else. If they suspect the Inquisition of interfering or deliberately sabotaging their efforts, they will retaliate. Be prepared for resistance.”

Vivienne is waiting in Josephine’s office when he leaves the room. She is watching the fireplace, arms folded behind her back. She turns around when the door opens and asks, “When are we leaving?”

“Tonight,” Maxwell says. He slows a step. “What is it?”

“Not you, my dear.” She glances at the others exiting the war room, waiting until only Leliana and Josephine are left. “You should read it before we leave.”

“Read… what?” he asks.

“An observation while you were gone on Seeker business,” Vivienne says. “Come see me if you need assistance. Leliana, darling, I have a favor to ask….”

A bemused Maxwell steps out of Josephine’s office into chaos. Soldiers hurry about, carrying weapons and armor from the armory to the undercroft and back. Visitors point and whisper, speculating on the activity; two spot the Inquisitor moving discreetly along the wall to his quarters and turns to their companions while waving in his direction. Maxwell quickly enters his tower before they think to approach him.

His quarters are startlingly quiet and still by comparison. He stares at the half-empty packs and knapsacks stacked up at the foot of the bed; he hadn’t bothered putting things away after returning from Caer Oswin and now it appears that he doesn’t have to. After a thought, he goes to one and pulls out several dark vials. They’re all warm to the touch, weeks after dragon’s blood dripped into them. He stares at them, then pockets one to consume later tonight and stashes the others in a separate bag. 

A piece of paper falls out while he’s changing for the long hard ride through western Orlais. Maxwell abruptly remembers the agent giving it to him earlier with instructions. Is this what Vivienne meant? What happened while he was gone? He unfolds it and reads the contents. And reads them again. And again. His eyebrow arches higher each time.

He tucks the note inside the book hiding Felix’s letter, collects his belongings in a corner for the soldiers to retrieve later, pulls on his dusty leather overcoat and a sash around his waist, and heads downstairs.

The edges of the sky are layered in deep reds and golds. Horses and several soldiers wait in the lower courtyard, ready to escort the Inquisitor and his companions out of Skyhold. Sera and the Iron Bull are laughing over something while Solas browses Bonny Sim’s wares with a bored expression. Cassandra and Cullen are walking out of the armory, Cullen holding her shield while she straps on her sword belt. Varric is watching Cole approvingly while the spirit examines a new pair of daggers. Dorian and Blackwall stand by a coppery Charger’s head, apparently arguing over Dorian’s disdain for horses.

“Enjoy the calm while you can,” Vivienne suddenly says while joining Maxwell at the top of the steps. The knight-enchanter is dressed in startlingly plain, practical clothing but still manages to look gracefully imposing. “It’ll be nearly two months before we return.”

“My ancestors came from beyond the Hunterhorn Mountains but I’ve never been that far west before,” Maxwell admits. He watches Leliana appear from a side door to intercept Cassandra and Cullen. “Two months?”

“I hope you’re ready,” she says as though she’s been doing this all her life. “But what am I saying? You are the Lord Inquisitor, after all.”

“You flatter me, Madam,” he replies and she laughs.

Halfway down the stairs, he says, “Vivienne, you told me to talk to you if I needed help.”

“I did.”

“Then….” He glances at Dorian, who’s still arguing with Blackwall while trying to fend off his horse’s affectionate nuzzling. “What can you tell me about Ponchard de Lieux?”

“He is an Orlesian merchant with aspirations for a title beyond his reach. It would matter little if it hadn’t come to his attention that a trinket he bought from a Tevinter traveler could be used as leverage.”

“The amulet Dorian tried to buy back,” Maxwell says, recalling the message’s contents. “Were you there?”

“Of course not. She was.” Vivienne nods in Bonny Sim’s direction. “Lucky for you, whatever rumors exist about his presence in the Inquisition have less to do with your dalliance and more to do with whatever influence the Magisterium is trying to exert on your council. Try to keep it that way. The less Ponchard has to work with, the better.”

She pats his shoulder and walks away. Cassandra calls Maxwell over and he joins her and the two advisors while hoping the setting sun hides the flush on his face.

“The Imperial Highway is the fastest and best-maintained route to the Approach,” Cassandra says, pointing to the map in Leliana’s hands. “We’re traveling light and resupplying at camps here, here, and here. We’ll only visit towns when absolutely necessary. Leliana’s agents already left to clear the way ahead.”

He nods while tracing their intended path from the Frostback Mountains to the blighted desert with his eyes, a half-month journey with the fate of the Wardens awaiting him. “Let’s go.”


	11. andraste 14: at the edge of a forgotten time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter had been done and waiting for me to do final edits since the end of October. I intentionally held it off until after NaNoWriMo because 1) I wanted to work on original fiction for NaNo , and 2) editing with a more objective eye is always better.
> 
> Then it became a matter of having enough energy, time, and fucks to give to get around to making sure this chapter still works. I think it does. I hope you think so, too.
> 
>  
> 
> As with the Red Templars, I never really found the Venatori to be an intimidating and formidable presence in the game. This chapter felt like the right one to delve into who they are and what they bring to the table compared to the Red Templars. I hope I pulled it off.

“... with Reeve Asa. Winning three consecutive Grand Tourneys? Who does that anymore?”

“Winning while barely clinging to your horse may count but it’s not exactly the stuff of legend, is it?”

“That depends entirely on who’s writing it. Hey, Trevelyan! What do you think?”

Maxwell jolts out of his daydream and turns in his saddle. “Think what?”

“You’ve been to the Grand Tourneys, right?” Varric asks. “You had to, you’re Ostwickian.”

“I did,” he says suspiciously, glancing between Varric and Blackwall. “Why?”

“Who’s the greatest knight to ever compete in a tourney in this age: Lady Honorine Chastain or Reeve Asa?” Blackwall asks. “My money’s on Chastain and Varric here begs to differ.”

“I… never actually paid attention to the knights,” Maxwell admits. “I was helping my father buy horses from them.”

“Of course you did,” Varric says, covering his face with his hand while Blackwall bursts out laughing. “What was I expecting?”

“My father trades in horses, serah, and I wanted to learn,” Maxwell replies with a sheepish grin. He does remember Reeve Asa charging across the green, carried forth by a great black Tantervale beast. He also remembers listening to his father negotiate with the newly crowned champion to bring the horse back to Ostwick for studding. “We still have Asa’s horse.”

Blackwall is still laughing, face bright red. “Can’t believe… oh that’s a good one. I’m never forgetting it.”

“You know,” Varric says once they both stop laughing at Maxwell, “Markham’s still holding the tourney this year. We should go. Make Trevelyan actually watch the action and settle the score. Eighty royals on Asa.”

“Not when he actually sees Chastain astride her horse,” Blackwall scoffs. 

“We’re not going to a tourney,” Maxwell says.

“There’s got to be trouble or something up near Markham,” the Warden says. “Didn’t one of Leliana’s spies say something about a Marcher city? Wycome, maybe?”

Maxwell glares at Blackwall. “No.”

“I’ll talk to Ruffles,” Varric decides. “I bet she could pull some strings.”

“Varric, I mean it,” Maxwell says desperately while Blackwall starts laughing again.

Ahead, Cassandra looks over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow but nobody else pays them mind. The Iron Bull and Solas are in the midst of their fifth game of chess, unaware of or deliberately choosing to ignore the laughter. Dorian and Vivienne are deep in discussion but their gesturing at the apostate in front of them looks suspicious. It doesn’t help that a bored Sera keeps snatching twigs and leaves off of trees to toss into Solas’s cowl.

“Should get more people in on this trip. Needs momentum to become something. Hey, Kid.” Varric turns to the spirit sitting gingerly on his equally nervous horse. “Anyone ever tell you about jousting?”

* * *

At the end of the fifth day, Cassandra takes Maxwell aside and shows him Leliana’s map. She points to the town they’re currently staying in, which sits just off the Imperial Highway twenty miles west of Halamshiral.

“We’re moving too slowly,” she says. “I told Sergeant Haley to exchange our horses now. We leave before dawn and ride hard to this outpost.”

“We just got here,” Maxwell replies with a frown, disappointment sinking into his aching shoulders.

“I know,” she says, “but we have no time to waste. Tell the others not to drink excessively. If someone falls off their horse, we’re not stopping to pick them up.”

Inquisition soldiers standing guard outside the town’s only inn straighten and salute as he enters the quaint wooden building. The locals sit at the tables all along the wall, gawking at the mismatched gathering of people in the middle of the floor. Embarrassed about disrupting their lives, he doesn’t meet their wide eyes while joining the other members of the Inquisition.

The very first thing he sees are ten tankards between Varric, Blackwall, and the Iron Bull. He quirks an eyebrow at the Qunari, who grins and says, “Want in, Boss?”

“Can’t,” Maxwell says. “Sorry.”

“Great. I’m guessing it’s bad news,” Varric says while pushing an ale to Cole, who wasn’t sitting next to him a second ago.

“We’re moving too slowly,” he says and the dwarf groans. “Cassandra is getting fresh horses right now. We leave before dawn.”

Blackwall sighs and hangs his head. “At least she’s not asking us to sleep in the saddle.” He waves to the other ales on the table. “So what do we do with these?”

Solas looks marginally less disgusted by the ale than he is by tea but he still refuses to take part in the toast, pushing it aside for Sera to snatch up. Dorian makes a face while sipping his and Cassandra drains the entire tankard before heading out to check in with Sergeant Haley. Vivienne pays the poor overwhelmed innkeeper five royals before seeing herself off to bed in one of several rooms upstairs.

Knowing they have only a few hours doesn’t stop Dorian from pinning Maxwell down on one of the small beds in their shared room. He smells earthy and dusty from days of travel but he looks impeccable as always, eyes glinting in the pale moonlight.

“Really? Now?” Maxwell asks wryly, though his heart quickens when Dorian’s hands tighten around his wrists. “Have to be out in a few hours.”

“Plenty of time,” Dorian murmurs, “and you’re far too tense.”

He swallows hard at the intent in Dorian’s words, at the teeth grazing his stubbled jaw and the flick of tongue. Neither makes a move to shed their travel-stained clothes and the urgency of their situation sends an anxious shiver up his spine.

“If anyone asks, you’re explaining it,” Maxwell manages to say and Dorian laughs before kissing him.

They haven’t had any time to themselves since leaving Skyhold and Dorian intends to make up for it with the handful of hours they have here. His kisses are hungry, hot and questing; he wrests all air out of Maxwell’s lungs while pressing in between his thighs, pushing his knees apart. He rocks forward and Maxwell gasps at the sudden flush of pleasure, then keens when Dorian moves again, hands clenching uselessly and back arching up. The anchor flares, casting them and the small room in an eerie glow.

“ _Dorian_ ,” he pleads, hushed and desperate.

Dorian shudders, buries his face in the crook of Maxwell’s neck with a low groan and rolls his hips. Maxwell bites back a hitching sob and curls around the mage; heat roils in his veins, building and building, drowning out coherent thought. A haze sets in, red and hungry, compelling him to drag Dorian closer with his knees. He leans up to kiss the mage while pulling against the hands still holding him down on the bed even though he can easily break free.

“I know,” Dorian says in between kisses, words hot against his swollen slick lips. “I know, I know, I know….”

Maxwell almost forgets about the world outside but it won’t let him. Someone knocks sharply on the door, calling for the Inquisitor, only to suddenly yelp and crash into something. They freeze and Maxwell quickly sits up, heart pounding for a completely different reason while reaching for his dagger.

“What was that?” he demands while down the hall, Cassandra’s irritated voice demands the same. He looks at Dorian and stares at the glowing hands, the magic vibrating in the hot air, the hard eyes fixed on the door. “Dorian?”

The mage lets out a breath and slowly lowers his hands while his stiff shoulders sag. Dorian dismisses his magic and shakes his head before rubbing at his temple. “I warded the door.”

“You what?” The small town was so unremarkable and harmless, he had thought. So did Cassandra. Did Dorian discover something Leliana’s agents didn’t? “Why?”

“We’re in a strange Orlesian town skirting around their inconvenient civil war.” Dorian refuses to look at him and mutters darkly in Tevene. “Find out who it is so that I can hex them.”

He doesn’t get up right away. His skin prickles incessantly, desire marching relentlessly underneath, but his head is clouded with questions and confusion. Cassandra’s worried voice slips into the room under the door and he gets off the bed with a sigh, rakes a shaking hand through his tousled hair and limps out into the hall.

Others are peering out of their rooms, watching Cassandra glare at a sliver of paper in her hands. A windswept agent nervously waits, surrounded by fallen chairs and a bench. Cole sits on the rail, staring at Maxwell… or past him to the other person in the room.

“Are you all right?” Maxwell asks the agent.

“Yes, Your Worship,” she replies while subconsciously rubbing away the bruise on her cheek. “It’s no matter.”

“Are you sure?”

The agent nods vigorously and then straightens when Cassandra huffs at the message. 

“What is it?” Maxwell asks.

“It’s from Rylen,” the Seeker says. “Venatori are arriving in greater numbers and he’s losing men to them. Harding barely escaped from one of their camps. Whatever they’re doing out there, they don’t want to see even a hint of us. He’s asking us to make haste.”

She is looking at him meaningfully. “So we leave now.”

Cassandra turns to the others watching and waiting at their doors. “Unfortunately. We push the pace and reach Verchiel by nightfall.”

“That’s a day and a half’s ride,” Blackwall says skeptically. “The horses will drop before we do.”

“They won’t and it won’t be. Inquisitor?”

He sighs and rubs his face, gathering his scattered thoughts. “All right. We meet in front of the inn in a half-hour.”

Sera swears loudly while stomping back inside the room she’s sharing with Cassandra, and someone - Varric, probably - groans about Tevinter inconveniencing everyone like usual. Cassandra says something to the agent and she hops down the stairs to alert the soldiers outside. The Seeker quirks an eyebrow at Maxwell before following Sera.

Maxwell returns to his room, shuts the door, and resists hitting it with his forehead. Instead he breathes deeply and turns around. “She’ll stop for me if I fall off my horse, right?”

“Hard to say, though I doubt your undead beast will let anything happen to you,” Dorian mutters. He sits at the edge of the rumpled bed, face in his hands. “Verchiel in a day?”

“You heard Cassandra. Rylen and Harding need us.”

“Need you, more like.” Dorian drags a hand down his face, takes a deep breath, and squares his shoulders. “At least we didn’t unpack anything-”

“Dorian.” Maxwell glances at the floor, wondering if he can see traces of magic on it. “Why the ward?”

The mage frowns. “I just told you. If you mean giving that scout an unpleasant surprise, then I’ll apologize but not for setting it in the first place.”

“Last time you set them was when we went to Redcliffe,” Maxwell says. “I know why you did that then, but why now? I’m not in immediate danger.” He sees Dorian’s gaze drop to the floor and his stomach slowly sinks. _Oh._ “Since when?”

Dorian heaves a sigh. “Crestwood. I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

Crestwood was almost a year ago. He has the vaguest memories of sensing something odd whenever he left the tent but assumed it was the oppressively wet weather. There’s a sudden lump in his throat and Maxwell swallows hard before speaking. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t I tell the Inquisitor I was warding every tent we shared as a simple yet necessary precaution to protect the only person in Thedas who can stop Corypheus?” Dorian replies causticly. “Why else do you keep your dagger under your head?”

It’s a sound argument but not an explanation for the anger on Dorian’s face when the ward first exploded. Precautionary measures don’t elicit such a reaction in most people, don’t turn them into cornered cats with bared fangs. Not unless they were already bracing themselves for the worst.

“I barely felt anything in Crestwood,” Maxwell says. “But the one you just set could’ve seriously hurt that agent.”

“I’ll change it next time.”

“Dorian-”

The mage shakes his head. “Don’t argue this with me, Maxwell. Not now.”

He knows better than to push. He can hear others moving around their rented rooms, grumbling about the late hour while packing away their belongings. Down below, the soldiers and horses are gathering; there’s no time to waste and so he nods and turns away to pick his discarded coat off the floor.

“All right. We’ll talk later.”

* * *

They stop for a half-hour at midday to water the horses and stretch their sore legs. Dorian limps to a shady spot under a copse just off the road and snaps at the Iron Bull when he teases the mage about his delicate constitution. Varric looks murderous, an extraordinarily rare expression for the dwarf, and nobody dares prod him about it. Even Vivienne looks tired, her face dull and her shoulders slumped as she joins Dorian and the Iron Bull under the trees to get out of the sun.

Sera follows Maxwell while he leads three tired horses to the nearby creek, grumbling while rubbing her behind and thighs. She stays well away from the sweating beasts and the tireless Bog Unicorn trailing after its master. She stands in the shallows, feet submerged in the cold water, and waits while the horses drink and dribble all over Maxwell’s hands and arms. After a few minutes, he looks up at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Need to ask,” she says, chewing on her lip while glancing around. Blackwall and several soldiers are also at the water’s edge with the other mounts but they don’t appear to be listening. “Verchiel, yeah? How long we staying?”

“Several hours,” he says and stifles a yawn. “Just enough for food, some rest, and new horses. Why?”

“Well,” she says, drawing the word out. “Heard things. From a friend of a friend.”

His sleep-deprived brain takes a few seconds to understand. “A… Jenny?”

“Friend of a friend, what did I say? Said there’s a territory thing in Verchiel, a pissy nob thing.”

“Is there any pissy thing we nobles don’t do?” Maxwell says dryly and she laughs.

“Yeah, but you’re… look, they’re getting little people beat up over _their_ pissy thing and no one’s looking. So. You walk in, look at some flowers, spook the ones up top. _Someone’s watching_. They put on their best behavior, everybody else stops getting pushed around.”

He frowns. “So Verchiel nobles are… having some sort of land dispute and people are getting hurt. And… you want me to show up and make them stop?”

She thinks about it for a half-second. “Yeah.”

“I don’t get it.”

She rolls her eyes. “They think they do whatever they want. But you or your people go marching through town and they get scared. Why you here? Whose side you on? They don't know. They make deals for you and stop fighting. Nobody else gets hurt. See? Everyone wins, except nobles but that’s a good thing.”

He glances at Cassandra, who’s standing on the road with Sergeant Haley and studying Leliana’s map. “I don’t know if we have time for that.”

“Every little thing makes a difference somewhere,” she replies. “S’not all torn skies and ancient arseholes, remember?”

He remembers. He just doesn’t know if they can afford to spend time settling some land squabble between Orlesian nobles when Rylen and Harding are losing ground to the Venatori.

“I’ll talk to Cassandra,” he decides and Sera makes a face.

“She won’t like it.”

Cassandra doesn’t like it but not for the reason Sera expects. She stares balefully at the elf while he explains Verchiel’s situation and then beckons to the dark-skinned sergeant for the map. “If what you say is true-”

“‘Course it is. My people’s good as yours.”

“-then we should avoid Verchiel and continue to Montsimmard. A territory dispute will take time that we don’t have.”

“I _said_ -”

“Send a few men to Verchiel, Sergeant,” Cassandra tells Sergeant Haley. “Have them investigate these land disputes and forward anything they learn to Leliana. Then you can decide what to do, Trevelyan.” She glances at Sera. “Don’t decide anything foolish.”

“No one asked you,” Sera says and sticks her tongue out.

“Fair enough,” Maxwell says and Sera grudgingly agrees with a huff that flutters her sun-bleached bangs. “But if we’re avoiding Verchiel….”

“We stop for an hour to find new mounts, then ride through the night. There’s an outpost fifteen miles past Verchiel. We can rest there.”

He wants to bury his face in his hands. Sergeant Haley’s armored shoulders slump and Sera groans loudly. “How about no horses.”

“You’d rather walk?” Cassandra asks flatly. “I don’t like it either but Corypheus is several steps ahead of us. That doesn’t sit well with me.”

Maxwell drags a hand through his short hair. “I know. This whole situation isn’t good.” He looks at the others standing under the trees, swapping food and small flasks. Blackwall is already napping, using his shield for a pillow. He envies the Warden. “Maybe we shouldn’t have waited to hear back from Stroud.”

“Or we would’ve wasted time and manpower chasing rumors around the Approach,” Cassandra replies. “And people like Fairbanks would be dead instead of our eyes and ears in the Dales.”

Cassandra wouldn’t have been able to stop Lucius in time, either. And what about Dorian? Maxwell takes a deep breath to bolster himself. “Then let’s go now. No point in wasting more time.”

Sera kicks at the pebbles on the road before stomping over to the waiting horses. She glowers at her mount,a small plain bay gelding with lopsided ears. “I hate this.”

Everybody does but there’s no use complaining about it. By the time they reach the outskirts of Verchiel, the sun is slipping below the horizon and every horse is heaving, flanks dark with sweat and dust. The Bog Unicorn, the only one unaffected by the punishing pace due to being an undead beast, paces around the group while they wait for new horses. After a brief terse discussion with Cassandra, five soldiers leave for the city to confirm Sera’s claims. 

Blackwall is napping again, sitting up against a scraggly tree with his arms crossed over his chest. Solas and the Iron Bull begin a new game of chess while Sera flings pebbles across the Imperial Highway as far as as she can. 

“Do you know anything about Verchiel?” Maxwell asks Vivienne while staring at the city’s lights.

“Do I know? It is the seat of Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons. If what Sera’s little flies told her is true, Leliana will know exactly what to do with that information.”

If her tone is anything to go by, Maxwell fears for the nobles that made themselves known to Sera’s friends. He nods once and then straightens when Sergeant Haley and several soldiers appear with the new mounts.

“Here we go again,” Varric sighs while tucking his journal inside his dusty coat and limps over to the smallest horse.

Dorian summons wisps to light the road ahead, prompting a remark from Cole about their singing. Varric begins nodding off and jerking awake whenever he starts slipping out of the saddle. Solas and the Iron Bull quietly wrap up their eighth round of chess and the Qunari starts humming what sounds like a chantey Maxwell used to overhear down at the Ostwickian docks. Sera falls asleep and Blackwall catches her horse before it wanders off the highway; she snores on Blackwall’s shoulder for several hours. 

Maxwell spends much of the night watching Dorian, wondering about the unsaid things back at the Orlesian town. He glances at Vivienne and abruptly recalls Leliana’s note about an argument between Dorian and an Orlesian merchant. Should he ask Dorian about the amulet he was trying to buy back? Would he try to brush it off just like he did the wards he quietly set to keep Maxwell safe?

“Nearly there,” Cassandra tells Maxwell some hours later. The night sky is starting to lighten and she’s one of a handful who didn’t once fall asleep during the long trek to the Inquisition outpost. She still holds her head high but her voice cracks and drags. “We’ll rest for a few hours while the outpost finds us fresh horses and then continue to Montsimmard. There should be one more outpost before we reach the city.”

“I haven’t been to Montsimmard in quite some time,” Vivienne says fondly. “But should you need a very nice, very _private_ room to rest, Trevelyan, I know people who’ll offer their châteaus for our use.”

Exhausted as he is, Maxwell still flushes hotly and ducks his head. “That won’t be necessary.”

She laughs.

The first of the two Inquisition outposts between Verchiel and Montsimmard is a well-fortified camp manned mainly by Orlesian soldiers, former Circle mages, and Chantry sisters and brothers. They greet Maxwell with bows, salutes, awe, and a bit of terror at the sight of him entering camp astride the Bog Unicorn. He waits until Cassandra draws their attention away before attempting to dismount without falling. The ground rolls underfoot and he stumbles into the Bog Unicorn’s side. The undead horse huffs hollowly and leans in, giving him something solid to lean on. He presses his forehead to the Bog Unicorn’s tough leathery neck, waiting until the world stops rocking like a ship’s deck, and then greets the waiting men and women with an encouraging smile.

“Anything to report, captain?” he asks of the camp’s leader.

The captain starts, not expecting to be addressed by the Inquisitor himself, and then shakes her head. “No, Your Worship. This part of the Highway’s seen very few people since we established camp. Travelers few and far between thanks to the war.”

“We need fresh horses,” Cassandra says. “Have you a raven?”

“Yes, Seeker. Right this way.”

Since nobody seems to need him for several hours, Maxwell goes to the waiting tents. He crawls inside the nearest one and manages to peel off his dusty boots and gloves before curling up on a bedroll. He sleeps too deeply to dream and wakes later to light warm robes draped over him and Blackwall’s steady snores on the other side of the tent. He buries his face in the dark red and gold fabric, breathing in northern spice and woodsmoke, and dozes off.

They leave with bright-eyed mounts and a worrying note from scouts that were dispatched to the region north of the Western Approach. The Venatori are crawling all over western Orlais, combing the sands for lost relics. Dorian suspects a reason for their sudden and overwhelming presence.

“They failed at Redcliffe,” he says flatly. “I imagine Corypheus made it plain how unimpressed he was with them, especially now that Alexius works for the Inquisition. They’ll want to get back into his good graces in order to regain his trust.”

“Can’t imagine what they’re willing to do to get it,” Blackwall mutters. “The worst sort of enemy to fight.”

A few hours later, while the pace is slower to rest the horses without stopping, Varric suddenly says, “Hey, Trevelyan.”

“Varric,” he replies warily, hoping the dwarf isn’t going to bring up his ridiculous plan to sail across the Waking Sea to Markham for the Tourney. 

“So,” and Varric pulls his journal out from inside his coat. “Your brother, Oswald. A templar?”

He eyes the book suspiciously. “Yes.”

“And your sister’s a mage.” Varric scribbles on a page with a piece of charcoal that wasn’t in his hand a second ago. “Where was she when everything went to shit?”

“Ostwick Circle.”

“Really?”

Maxwell shrugs. “Family had the pull to keep Evie and Edmund nearby. Why? What are you writing?”

“Notes. Guessing Edmund’s a brother, cousin, uncle? Her name’s Evie?”

“Evelyn. And he’s an older brother. What notes? Are you writing about me?”

Varric looks affronted. “Have you _met_ me, serah? What do you take me for? Crazy shit keeps happening around you, of course I have to write it down. Need the backstory, though. Got anyone else in the family? Just your brothers, sisters, and parents. Don’t list every Trevelyan you can think of just because you can.”

“That could go on for days,” Vivienne remarks. “I’ve met Trevelyans in the Circles, among the templars, the Chantry, the court, and a few salons.”

“Wasn’t one of them a bard?” Cassandra asks.

“I’ve met a few… around,” Blackwall says. “Places. I wouldn’t go drinking with any of them. Very dour. Not that it’s an insult.”

“I’ve taken a tumble with one or two before,” the Iron Bull says. “What?”

“I know someone. Knew. Lost their purse and keys. And then their head,” Sera cackles. “... sorry.”

Maxwell considers turning his horse around and returning to Verchiel. These nobles Sera spoke of suddenly seem like better company than what he’s stuck with now.

“All joking aside,” Varric says, “how many other brothers and sisters do I need to know about?”

Maxwell doesn’t miss how Solas’s attention sharpens when he talks about Edmund or how Dorian leans in to listen to every word he utters about Adelyn, Edric, Hildred, Oswald, and Evelyn. Sera grows bored after a few minutes and resumes tossing twigs and leaves into Solas’s cowl, unaware of the apostate’s twitching ears every time she gets one in.

“Not being seen made you happy,” Cole sighs during a lull in the revealing and frankly mortifying conversation. “But he was never enough. If he couldn’t be enough, no one else could.”

Dread prickles up his spine and down his arms. “Every family sends someone to the Chantry. War just got in the way.”

Cole opens his mouth, then cocks his head and says, “Now you’re too bright.”

They couldn’t arrive at the next outpost quickly enough. As soon as he unsaddles the tireless Bog Unicorn, he heads to the nearest tent instead of finding something to eat. Dorian enters it while he’s tugging himself free of his leather coat and tosses his bags into a corner of the tent.

“He’s not going to write about us, is he?” Dorian asks by way of greeting.

Maxwell pauses while rolling up the coat. He glances at Dorian’s hands, searching for a hint of magic, but sees nothing. “We have to stop Corypheus first or else he won’t have anything to write about.”

Dorian laughs tiredly. “A point.” He sheds his outer robes and then pours water from his waterskin onto his head. Maxwell watches him rake back dark damp hair and wipe off the excess. “I miss civilization already.”

“Montsimmard is a day’s ride away,” Maxwell says.

“But we’re not going there for pleasure, are we.” Dorian watches him for a few seconds, then reaches out to still him. Maxwell starts, then smiles when Dorian kisses him. It’s a lingering touch, a reassuring gesture after long days and nights on the road with too few moments of privacy and quiet. “Enlightening conversation earlier about your family. Made me realize I don’t know much about them at all besides what you told me about Evelyn.”

“And that marriage several ages ago,” Maxwell says. “What do you want to know?”

Dorian studies him. “Are you Trevelyans really that prolific?”

He huffs a laugh. “Apparently, the more of us there are, the more there are to serve the Maker and the people. We’re taught that from very young. My father… didn’t do so well compared to the rest of the family - Addie was born first, Hilly joined the templars, and Evie’s a mage.”

“And your brothers? Besides Edmund, which, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. I didn’t know him all that well before the Circles fell. Fiona met him, though. She didn’t expect a Trevelyan to come to Redcliffe.”

“Meanwhile, Oswald is a templar and this Edric…?”

His heart stutters and he drops his gaze to his hands and the glimmer of the anchor between his fingers. “Lives in Tantervale now. I was the youngest so I was supposed to go to Starkhaven but my mother refused. She thought I could be everything Edric was supposed to be.”

Dorian quirks an eyebrow. “I imagine he wasn’t happy about that.”

Maxwell sighs harshly. “No, he wasn’t.” 

He wonders if he should say more, if he should mention how relieved he was to be informed that he’ll never have to see Edric again. No matter how much time has passed or how much distance stands between them, he can’t stop feeling the anger and fear pressing at the back of his throat whenever he thinks about his oldest brother. 

Dorian must’ve noticed how bitter he sounded and tactfully asks, “Do you miss them?”

“I do.” Only one is safe at home; the others are scattered throughout the Marches or dust and ashes in the Frostback Mountains. “Maybe I’ll see them when this is all over.”

“What makes you think you won’t?”

“You heard Varric. Crazy shit keeps happening around me,” Maxwell says. “All I know is that they were near Wycome several months ago. I don’t know where they are now.”

“Ask your spymaster to do something about it. You _are_ the Inquisitor, last I checked.” Dorian kisses Maxwell again, deeply and thoroughly so as to leave him breathless and lightheaded. “They’re important to you. Who’d complain about you abusing your powers to find them?”

Smiling, Maxwell returns the kiss, murmurs, “You give terrible advice, you know that?”

“The absolute worst. But that’s why you keep me around.”

* * *

An unmarked village between Montsimmard and Val Firmin welcomes the passing Inquisition party with a plea for help, pointing to an inactive rift hovering above an unlucky farmer’s wheat field. With apologies to the old man, the Inquisition follows their leader to it and watches him rip the Veil apart in order to properly close the tear. In the ensuing battle, a rage demon and several wraiths lay waste to the farm and punch a hole in the village’s chantry before being banished back to the Fade. The Inquisitor promises help repairing the damage and the Inquisition leaves the village as heroes, laden with its gratitude and praise.

“See?” Sera tells Cassandra and Vivienne. She turns up her nose at them. “Little people matter, too.”

Several roads branch away from the Imperial Highway and run west past villas, châteaus, and villages. The nobles live closer to the main road and their estates are as grand as their titles, but the villagers at the edge of civilization live a hardy life, coaxing sustenance from the drying earth. The verdant lands of Orlais die slowly, withering under the heat and from lack of water.

“Don’t like here,” Cole says, hunching in his saddle. “I can still hear the screaming.”

“What are you talking about?” Sera asks, eyes darting every which way.

“Under the sand, they’re still screaming. Black and poison and blood. It’s why nothing grows.”

“Tree.” She points at a scraggly thing hugging the side of a sandy hill. “And tree. Oh look, another tree.”

“But nothing grows,” he replies. Grumbling, Sera urges her horse forward and away from the spirit.

There are signs of struggle all along the dusty road, abandoned wagons and mummified remains of people lying in the sand forgotten by all but time. Hot winds blow past them, carrying an unpleasant stench, and people gag, complaining about rotten eggs.

“Sulphur,” Solas says. “One of the many ways darkspawn corrupted these lands beyond all hope. Only the hardiest and the most desperate survive in these harsh climes.”

“This is going to be fun,” Varric mutters, mood souring by the second.

The afternoon sun drenches the Approach in deep rich oranges and reds. Trees are few and far between, clinging grimly to the desert, refusing to wither and die. Birds float overhead on the rising hot air, huge dark shapes with cruel beaks, searching for the dying and the dead. Somewhere ahead of them, something laughs and the horses skitter and snort, ears pinned back.

“What’s that?” Sera demands.

“Hyenas. Stubborn shits,” the Iron Bull says. “If they think you’re easy pickings, they’ll gather everyone up and follow you for miles ‘til you drop.”

“Let’s go back to Montsimmard,” Dorian suggests and Vivienne hums in agreement.

The trail of debris and wreckage goes on for a few sweltering miles, and then two Inquisition soldiers suddenly emerge from behind a broken wagon, arrows pointing at Maxwell and Cassandra. A quick glance at his left hand and the Seeker’s all-seeing eye on her chestplate, and they lower their weapons to salute.

“Your Worship,” one of them says. “Harding is expecting you. Right this way.”

“Finally,” Blackwall sighs.

Camp is situated in the shadow of a canyon next to a rare and glorious oasis. Harding and Hawke are standing around a table under a tree, talking and pointing at a map. They look up when someone alerts the camp of the Inquisitor’s arrival. Hawke looks weary, skin even darker from the unrelenting sun, but he grins at the sight of Varric carefully dismounting and landing in a cloud of sand.

“Thought you hated horses, Varric!” he calls out and Varric gestures rudely. “You have my sympathies for traveling with him, Inquisitor.”

“Don’t you start,” the dwarf grumbles while brushing sand off his coat. “Where’d Sunshine and Broody go?”

“They’re tracking Venatori in the canyon northwest of camp,” Hawke replies. He then gives Maxwell a respectful nod. “Welcome to the Approach, Inquisitor.”

“Champion.” This time, Maxwell doesn’t fluster and turn red at the acknowledgement but it’s a near thing. “I hope the Venatori haven’t been giving you too much trouble.”

“I’ve had worse,” Hawke declares and Varric snorts incredulously.

Maxwell walks over to Harding while the others slowly disperse to rest in the white tents. She beams at him like always but her smile doesn’t outshine the black eye and the healing cuts on her face. 

“Are you all right? I heard we almost lost you to the Venatori.”

She flushes and glances down at the map. “I’m well, Your Worship, and they ended up losing four of their men instead.” She adjusts the dusty books and rocks holding down the corners of the map. “And I’m glad you’re here. Captain Rylen and his men are camping here between the Abyssal Rift and the Giant’s Staircase. They’re keeping an eye on an old Warden keep the Venatori are squatting in.”

“Where else are they?” he asks, peering at the map.

“Everywhere,” Hawke says, tapping on several markers on it. “Concentrated here, here, and here. There’s a whole area blocked off by gates that can only be opened from the inside. Scouts think the Venatori are up to no good behind it but we can’t convince them to come out because of an unfortunate green thing floating here.”

“Bethany said the Veil is thinner in places like this,” Harding says. She points to other specific marks on the map. “You have your work cut out for you, Worship.”

Maxwell sighs internally. “And Stroud? The Wardens?”

“Rylen’s people spotted Wardens moving south along the Rift. Stroud was last seen here, right at the edge of the Approach. I assume he’s shadowing them.”

“Where are they going?” he asks.

“Don’t know that yet.”

Harding looks up when Cassandra joins the discussion. The Seeker leans on the table, staring at the map and then at the others standing around it. “Tell me everything about the Venatori.”

The current plan is to head out before dawn tomorrow to outrace the sun and stop the Venatori’s progress. Harding and Hawke explain that the Venatori have been staking out old Tevinter ruins half-buried in sand and that a group of smugglers have been attacking scouting parties and caravans of supplies going to an Orlesian professor camping in Nazaire’s Pass to the south.

“What’s a researcher doing out here at this time?” Maxwell wonders.

Harding hesitates, eyes flicking to a scout loitering nearby while drinking from a waterskin. “He’s a professor with the University of Orlais. According to the scouts that made contact, he came here to study the wildlife and refuses to be intimidated by everything going on around here… including a high dragon-”

“The _Abyssal_ high dragon,” the scout calls out. “Only one of the rarest subspecies of high dragons in western Orlais, and I saw her with my own two eyes-”

“ _Pierre_.”

“Oh Maker,” Cassandra sighs. “Tell me about these smugglers.”

Bethany and Fenris return hours later with a contingent of soldiers, dusty and splattered in blood. Maxwell watches them arrive while cleaning his gear by the spring; Hawke visibly relaxes and embraces them both while the soldiers disperse to report to either Cassandra or Harding. Fenris’s right arm is caked in dried blood and Maxwell abruptly recalls Varric’s descriptions of Fenris’s unusual lyrium-fueled abilities. No wonder the soldiers are keeping their distance.

Dorian appears at the spring, an empty waterskin in hand. He follows Maxwell’s line of sight and then softly says, “I saw him once, years ago in Minrathous.”

He doesn’t elaborate and Maxwell supposes he doesn’t have to. Varric’s book told just enough to the wider world and it’s not his place to ask. Still, he has to wonder how Fenris will react now that he’ll be working with Dorian to eradicate the Venatori. He doesn’t recall them crossing paths at Caer Bronach. “Would he know you?”

“I doubt it. It was just in passing and I was much too drunk to recall anything more than….“ He gestures emptily and then crouches down at the water’s edge to fill the skin. “The water _is_ safe to drink, isn’t it?”

“Safe enough for the horses,” Maxwell says, nodding to the Bog Unicorn standing by the spring across from them, untethered and unbothered by a nervous soldier trying to corral it.

“You do realize that creature doesn’t eat or drink or even sleep.” Dorian rolls his eyes and fills the waterskin. “I took a look at some of the messages Harding’s people stole from our friendly neighbors. They’re very keen on excavating some of the ruins here that predate the First Blight. Would be in the Inquisition’s best interest to see what they’re looking for.”

“Do the messages say anything else? Do you know what it is?”

Dorian shrugs. “Powerful magical artifacts is my one and only guess. Perhaps they think they can find something that’ll elevate them to godhood, or they could run around in circles for months chasing whispers. You never know with these things. Personally I prefer the latter. Would save us a great deal of time.”

Something cackles deep in the canyons and the barking laugh bounces off the walls in a maddening cacophony. Everyone freezes and a horse squeals anxiously, stirring up the other mounts. The Iron Bull then remarks that it’s just a cackle of hyenas investigating their camp and Sergeant Haley grumbles under her breath while dragging four soldiers with her to chase them off.

“Should get some sleep,” Maxwell says and pockets Blackwall’s whetstone before gathering his gear. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

* * *

The Approach is dark, cold, and still - “But watch out for darkspawn,” Harding warns. - when everyone breaks off into their respective parties to cover various sandy corners of the region. Varric elects to travel south with Hawke, Bethany, and Fenris to root out the White Claw smugglers.

“How long has it been, Varric?” Hawke muses on the way out of camp.

“Too damn long,” he says while tugging on the collar of his dusty coat. “How is it that no matter how hard I try to keep you out of my mess, you show up anyway….”

Cassandra and Blackwall take a group of soldiers to Captain Rylen’s camp to reinforce his numbers and reduce the Venatori presence. Much to Harding’s annoyance, the Iron Bull picks out Pierre specifically for his trek to Nazaire’s Pass to investigate the Orlesian researcher and White Claw activity.

“They’re camping here at an abandoned mine and here near an old fort,” Harding says, pointing to a region on the map called the Waste. “Watch out for phoenixes. And don’t go around provoking that dragon, Pierre. Focus on what the White Claws and Venatori want with the researcher.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice - Venatori first, smugglers next, dragons forever,” her agent says cheerfully. He salutes her and Maxwell, and bounds away to where the Iron Bull, Sera, Solas, and six soldiers are gathering.

That leaves Maxwell with the Venatori crawling all over an old Tevinter ruin near an oasis in the canyons. It is a half hour’s walk away, which makes him wonder why the Venatori hadn’t tried to attack the camp themselves… his eyes fall on the mark near the so-called Gates of Toth. How ironic that an Inquisition camp would be protected by a Fade rift.

“They know where this camp is and they probably know you’re here now,” Harding says. “The shortest route is blocked by a rift. Unless you want to deal with it now…?”

“Maybe later,” Maxwell says, subconsciously clenching his left hand. “What’s the alternative?”

“The way behind me,” Harding says, jabbing a thumb over her shoulder, “takes you to Valemont Pass. If you follow that all the way to the end, there’s another pass that’ll take you back up this way to the ruins but it’s a waste of time and you have to watch out for hyenas. Rylen’s men found another way here. There are abandoned mines all over the place and one of them runs through to the other side. Should take you straight to the Venatori.”

She hesitates, face suddenly grim, and dread crawls up Maxwell’s back. “What is it?”

“You should know, Inquisitor, that the Red Templars were here,” Harding says slowly. “Nightingale told me to warn you if we ever find red lyrium, and we found it. The templars were mining it here but they left before we arrived.”

“And the red lyrium?” he asks, knowing what the answer will be.

“Still there and still growing.”

How did Leliana know? Did she ask Barris? Cassandra? Dorian?He closes his eyes and lets out a long slow breath. “Appreciate the warning, Harding.”

“Of course. Oh, and watch out for the spider nests.”

He considers asking Dorian to torch the mines until everything is dead before venturing inside.

The world is still dark when he leaves camp with Dorian, Cole, Sergeant Haley, and five soldiers. Dorian complains about the cold and the soldiers grumble while tucking their hands under their arms, but Maxwell is impervious to it. It must be the dragon blood he had a half-hour earlier.

They head south on foot, striding past abandoned wagons and bleached bones. A wide-eared fennec fox yips at them before skittering up the ridge, prompting a mild comment from Cole about the taste of gamy lizards. A soldier then points to the mines on their right, the ramps deliberately broken and burned by the retreating templars. Dorian pockets some ghoul’s beard growing from a mine entryway before raising broken lumber to fashion a ramp.

Wisps float ahead as they venture into the cool dark of the mine, illuminating the sloping twisting pathway, cobwebs dangling from the support beams, the burnt torches, and mushrooms growing on shriveled spider carcasses. Maxwell is careful not to look down as he follows the wisps.

His skin prickles. Something chimes in his ear and his head. He glances over his shoulder at Droian, who looks mildly nauseous, and Cole, who keeps cocking his head to the side like he’s listening for something. The soldiers don’t react.

“Dear Andraste,” Dorian murmurs as they enter the heart of the mine. “How did they manage?”

Clusters of red lyrium burst out of the ground likes trees, creating deep fissures in the hard earth. Harvested and polished slabs sit stacked against the wall, waiting to be shipped out. They remind Maxwell of the wagon in the Emerald Graves with its precious red cargo. Was this the source of the Red Templar’s red lyrium?

“It’s hard to hear,” Cole says while stepping lightly around forgotten chests bursting red and dusty abandoned mining equipment. Small crystals cling to the dulled edges, red lyrium finding a foothold in the rusting metal. “He needs us elsewhere. Let them mages scavenge their way back into his favor.”

Sergeant Haley sifts through the clutter on a large crudely made table, carefully brushing lyrium dust away from a stack of old missives with a wad of spider silk. She tilts a letter to the low red light of the nearest lyrium cluster.

“Left in a hurry or they would’ve destroyed these first. Coded messages, Worship, but they could still be useful.” She picks up another one. “Wait… found something. Orders are to go back east to the Dales. Emprise du Lion. Nightingale needs to know.”

Maxwell nods.

“Inquisitor?”

A hand presses at his elbow, nudging him forward a half-step.

“Perhaps now is a good time to keep moving?” Dorian suggests, words tight and tense despite the light tone. “Spiders live here, last I heard, and I’d hate to see what living around the red lyrium did to their bodies.”

Maxwell tears his eyes away from an unpolished lyrium spire, swears its crackling red tendrils reach for him as he walks past to the other side of the mine. Dry desert air flows in from a narrow passage that should take them to the Venatori camp. He exhales harshly, trying to clear his lungs of the incessant prickling and to make his stomach settle. He glances at his left hand and is dismayed to find it trembling while the anchor pulses in time with his racing heart. 

“Let’s go,” he says, the command tacky in his dry mouth.

Sergeant Haley crams the missives into a satchel while the others follow him out of the mine. They watch the dark corners of the sloping passageway, searching for the reported spiders but all anyone sees are the brittle remains of dead ones. Mushrooms growing near the entrance are small and shriveled, struggling against the oppressive heat the arid wind is blowing into the mine. 

The sun blazes overhead when they stumble out of the mine. Everyone immediately shields their eyes with their hands and some of the soldiers grumble enviously about Cole’s wide-brimmed hat.

“There they are,” the spirit says, pointing across the canyon.

Nestled in against the sheer reddish stone walls is a lush spot of greenery, trees and tall grass fed by an oasis. They frame the grand gray Tevinter ruins, a memory of another time. It would have made a pretty picture if not for the Venatori loitering in front of it. They had settled in under the scattered trees, covering the ground with tents and stacks of crates.

“They’ve been busy,” Maxwell says. “Wonder what they found.”

“Anything very dusty, magical, and probably powered with blood,” Dorian says promptly. “I suggest intervening before their clumsy handling rips the whole place apart, possibly time as well. Or they could be digging up artifacts that are magical but not quite so world-breaking. You can never tell with these things.”

“Then let’s find out,” Maxwell says and strides down the sandy slope.

The Venatori were prepared to fight Inquisition soldiers for rights to the ruins’ salvage and rush out to meet them with a cry. One soldier drops from Cole’s daggers and Maxwell caves in another man’s helmed head. Others scramble back and someone shouts, “It’s the Inquisitor! Warn Lucanus-”

He gurgles and falls, hands scrabbling uselessly at the well-aimed arrow sticking out of his throat. Sergeant Haley quickly notches another but her target quickly summons a barrier to deflect it. The mage then rains fire on her and two other soldiers but Dorian casts his own barrier to shield them. Maxwell throws his hunting dagger at the mage; the Venatori knocks it aside but exposes his back to Cole’s ambush. The spirit leaps away from the bleeding mage and darts around a towering Venatori brute, deftly avoiding the man’s heavy swings and jabbing at the openings in his armor. Enraged, the Venatori soldier starts swinging his battleaxe around, splintering trees, bringing down tents, and breaking hay-filled crates. 

“Not the crates!” Dorian yells and hexes the brute.

The purplish cloud of spirits descends on the Venatori soldier, who starts howling and clawing at his helm. Another hex rips into the wounds Cole landed on his body; blood seeps out from between the gaps in his armor as he stumbles about, shouting in pain. Cole leaps onto his shoulders and rams a dagger into his throat, ending his suffering. 

Two Venatori henchmen break away and bolt for Valemont Pass. They stumble and fall, arrows sticking out of their backs. Maxwell blocks another soldier’s blade and kicks the Venatori back; he knocks the man down and crushes his head in. He looks up and then ducks away from an arrow. Dorian quickly retaliates with a searing fireball and the archer runs screaming to the oasis. Sergeant Haley puts the Venatori down with an arrow.

“That’s disgusting,” Dorian says, watching Maxwell wipe off bits of brain, skull, and skin with the dead Venatori’s stained tunic.

They pick through the crates. Dorian is dismayed with the contents of the ones splintered during the struggle, looking morosely at the shards in his hands and trying to arrange them into a believable shape. The intact ones are full of strange ornate objects caked in hardened dirt. These the soldiers don’t touch; instead they push the crates in Dorian’s direction and search the excavation camp for information.

Maxwell watches Dorian hold an intact artifact up to the light, trying to discern its purpose. “Is it enchanted?”

“It doesn’t talk,” Cole offers helpfully. He looks at the Tevinter ruins. “It’s too quiet. Too still. Waiting for the right moment.”

“I’ll know more once we get all of this back to Skyhold,” Dorian says and places it reverently in the crate. He then spots a piece of paper wedged in between two other crates and pulls it out. “Look at this. Orders from Lucanus to the people we just killed. These were meant for our mysterious Venatori friend, Calpernia.”

“What is she looking for?” Maxwell wonders.

“No idea,” Dorian replies and folds up the manifest. “But Corypheus might know, so I say we loot everything here and keep them out of his grubby blighted hands.”

Sergeant Haley orders four soldiers to stand guard while Maxwell and the others venture into the ruins. Past the grand slate arches is a pair of iron doors defended by a group of anxious Venatori. After a quick and brutal fight, they pick their way through the bleeding bodies and enter the ruins.

And encounter stillness.

“Too quiet,” Cole murmurs, walking around a Tevinter mage and a spindly long-limbed demon frozen in midair. “Too still. Waiting.”

“Maker, what… what _is_ this?” Sergeant Haley whispers, jaw slacking.

There is an entirely different world within these grand walls, a frenetic moment frozen in time. The ceiling is buckling, caving in, but the bricks and iron and broken pieces have yet to crash to the floor. Demons and mages are caught mid-stride or in the air, locked in a battle for their lives. Maxwell prods a mage’s shoulder and meets resistance; the falling man doesn’t move an inch. His face is pale, twisted in fear of the grotesque demon lunging at him.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Dorian says, voice hushed but barely containing his excitement. “Everything is literally frozen in time. What’s happening here, how did it happen… _when_ did it happen… that can’t be….”

“What is it?” Maxwell calls out while staring at the skeletal face of a despairing demon.

Dorian walks around another frozen mage, studying the robes intently. “Antiquated fashion. And this staff… I’ve seen these at the archives in Minrathous. Private collections. These predate the First Blight.”

 _Impossible._ Maxwell takes another look at the mage in front of him but sees nothing out of the ordinary. Then again, he didn’t grow up in Tevinter.

“That’s over a thousand years ago,” Sergeant Haley says. “Maker’s breath, they’ve been here for that long? Are they still alive?”

“Wouldn’t know until we find what created this anomaly and break the spell,” Dorian says. “But let’s not try that yet. Everything within these walls is beyond invaluable. Frozen history at my fingertips. Remarkable.”

He hops down the stairs into the main chamber. Maxwell can’t hide his smile at Dorian’s enthusiasm and quickly follows him down past the frozen demons and mages. Dorian stops short at the bottom of the steps, though, staring at something before him. Maxwell looks up and his stomach drops at the sight of a rift caught in the heart of the chamber, green and wrong and _frozen_. He looks at his hand but the anchor glimmers quietly, unaware of the Veil tear.

“It’s not reacting,” he says. “How is that possible? How did they freeze a _rift_?”

“Excellent question. Whatever they were doing here, it would’ve taken an extraordinary amount of power and a miscalculation or two for them to create something like this.”

“And then they froze themselves for a thousand years? How does that work? Why couldn’t Alexius warp time and send us all the way back to Ancient if this thing exists?”

Dorian prowls around the dais, eyes darting between the mages, demons, and the rift. He leans in to observe the open pages of a book in a mage’s hands, spots something in the folds of their robes, and tugs it out.

“Remarkable. Still intact after all this time.” Maxwell joins him, leaning over his shoulder while he unfolds the yellowed paper. The ink is faded and the script unfamiliar. “Give me a moment… seems these mages created a failsafe in case of a catastrophic event.”

“I’d say that’s a catastrophic event,” says the other soldier, a dwarf named Lenn. “Suppose the failsafe is what kept this thing from eating up the whole sky a thousand years back.”

“More or less. This failsafe has been feeding on the Fade ever since to maintain the spell. I could break it once we find it.”

“Why do we want to break it?” Lenn asks. “Just leave them where they are, take everything Corypheus wants, and get out.”

“There is a _rift_ in front of your face,” Sergeant Haley says. “I don’t know about you but I don’t feel right just leaving it there.”

“No, it’s not right, especially if the Venatori was here for the same reason we are,” Maxwell says. “If they broke the failsafe and the rift started spreading….”

He lets his words hang in the still air. 

“We’ll have to delve deeper,” Dorian says while pocketing the notes. “Explains why Calpernia was so interested in this place at least.”

They cautiously tread across the sandy tiled floor and around the frozen bodies to the other side of the main chamber. Cole picks a rusted lock sealing away a section of the ruins, saying all the while that he wishes he can just politely ask it to let him in. Behind the doors is an untouched study, safely shielded from time. Dorian’s eyes light up at the sight and he leaps down the stairs to investigate an ornate desk covered in papers and baubles.

“Lenn, stay back and keep an eye on the door,” Sergeant Haley says. “Inquisitor, should I mark this place for excavation?”

“Please do,” Dorian says while sifting through the papers. Frenetic as his motions are, he carefully stacks the yellowed sheets and catches an artifact before it tips over the edge of the table. “These will take weeks to translate and decipher but the wealth of information in them… the Grand Archivist will shit himself.”

“You’re sending these back to Tevinter?” Maxwell asks.

“This is my history. Our history. Wouldn’t be right for me to hoard it. Well… maybe the ones detailing the rituals that created the breach in the main hall. We don’t need some bright fool attempting to create another.”

Maxwell watches him skim every piece of paper, journal, and scroll on the abandoned desk. Dorian’s completely in his element and it’s quite a sight. Maxwell sits on the steps and watches the mage bounce between the desk and the various objects scattered around the chamber. Dorian even pushes aside the thick layers of sand with a weak telekinetic burst to see if there’s anything lying on the tiled floor.

Something clatters outside the study. Maxwell grabs his sword and leaps to his feet, heart pounding. Sergeant Haley and Lenn notch arrows and Dorian summons raw magic in his hands. Nothing appears at the door, however, and after several tense seconds, Cole peers out into the main chamber.

“They’re elsewhere,” Cole says. “They’re searching, too.”

“Then we need to leave,” Maxwell says, looking around at the impregnable stone walls. “Can’t let them catch us in here.”

The sergeant beckons Lenn to follow her to the door while Dorian quickly shuffles the notes and diagrams into a pile. He opens a draw, stuffs them inside, and then pockets a bauble.

“It’s not enchanted,” he remarks when Maxwell raises an eyebrow. “Cole, tell him it’s just a trinket.”

“It’s just a trinket,” Cole says solemnly. “It watched him write day and night. Until candle wax dripped off the table and the sun rose and fell twice, yet he still wrote. But Sarpedon was right to doubt him.”

“Sarpedon, you say?” Dorian glances at the desk once more before going up the stairs. “Whoever sat there wasn’t overly fond of him and said so multiple times. Finding Sarpedon’s desk could be enlightening.”

Maxwell grins. “You’re enjoying this.”

“It’s not every day that you walk right back into a time before the Blight and Andraste,” Dorian replies, unable to suppress his own pleased smile. “Much better than time traveling. Less nightmare-inducing, anyway. I’d like to know how the Venatori knew to look here. Perhaps Corypheus knew of it? It wouldn’t have been long before his time… makes me wonder what they already carted away to wherever this Calpernia is hiding.”

“So your friend in the Magisterium didn’t find anything on her?”

“To be fair, there are quite a few people named Calpernia. It’s a matter of finding the right one without alerting her. Perhaps your spymaster can coordinate with-”

Sergeant Haley suddenly throws her hand up, stopping everyone in their tracks. She nods in the direction of shuffling noises somewhere in the main chamber and Lenn pads forward, arrow notched. Cole shadows the dwarf and then abruptly vanishes.

“I hate it when he does that,” Dorian mutters.

“Me, too,” Sergeant Haley says. 

Someone screams and they bolt out of hiding. Maxwell immediately throws himself out of the way of a spell and it shatters against a frozen demon. He leaps to his feet and then dodges a greataxe aimed at his head. He collides with a paralyzed mage, ducks away from the axe, and brings his greatsword up to counter another heavy blow. The brute stumbles to the side and Dorian immolates him.

Cole strikes the lone mage in the group but his daggers skim over the Venatori agent’s barrier and the mage blasts him back with a telekinetic burst. The mage then sweeps his staff over the ground; electricity sparks and catches the two Inquisition soldiers. Lenn shrugs it off in a matter of seconds and throws a hidden dagger at the mage, who flinches away and breaks the spell. Cole sweeps Sergeant Haley away while Dorian bombards the Venatori mage with fire and energy. Maxwell charges in and crushes the man’s ribcage with a brutal swing.

“Heh,” Lenn says faintly while picking up his dagger. “Bastard never counted on dwarven constitution, did he?”

“Probably not,” Maxwell says, wiping sweat off his forehead. “Are you all right?”

“Been worse, Worship. I’ll live. But what about the sergeant?”

Maxwell follows his line of sight to see Sergeant Haley sitting up against Cole, making a face while handing a vial back to Dorian. She looks frazzled, her tightly coiled black hair standing up in all directions, but alive. He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“Appreciate it, Ser Pavus,” she says, “but couldn’t you mask the taste with something? Mint, maybe? Elfroot is disgusting.” She looks up at Maxwell when he approaches. “I’m all right, Worship, but I’m afraid I won’t be of much use.”

“Then Lenn will take you back outside,” he says. “This whole place is caught in a spell and if we undo it, you’ll be right in the middle of all this.”

“Yeah, I’d rather not,” Sergeant Haley says with a wary glance at the frozen Veil tear. She lets Lenn and Cole haul her to her feet. “I’ll send word for reinforcements to this location, Worship. Be careful, or Cassandra will have all our hides.”

“I will,” he says and watches the two soldiers limp around the dais and up the stairs to the double doors.

Dorian, meanwhile, is kneeling next to the dead mage and rooting through his robes. He mutters about his findings, wiping blood off on the Venatori agent with a grimace, and then frowns mightily while yanking free a leather pouch on the mage’s belt. He tips its contents into his hand - tiny message scrolls and a piece of an ornately carved rock.

“It is not whole,” Cole declares. “It needs the rest of itself.”

“And our dead friend was carrying it. Must be important to them,” Dorian says. He tucks it within his robes and skims the scrolls’ contents. “Orders from… Servis. They’re looking for a locked chamber. Corypheus wants whatever’s inside it.”

“Then I want it more,” Maxwell says. “What else?”

“Not much. Seems these mages complained about their search and Servis was reminding them of whom they serve.” He also hides away the message scrolls and picks up Tyrdda’s staff. “I doubt this unfortunate fellow is the Lucanus others were trying to warn.” 

“He’s not,” Cole says.

“Then let’s find him,” Maxwell says and turns to the inner chamber.

“More ominous words have never been spoken,” Dorian says lightly.

They find Lucanus and the rest of the Venatori party in a narrow courtyard behind the main chamber, bickering about the strange noises coming from the hall. They sound terrified of possibly breaking the spell trapping the demons, mages, and rift because they will have no way of closing the Veil tear and getting out alive. Luckily - or unluckily for them - Maxwell is here.

“Inquisition!” a soldier cries out and Dorian pummels him into the ground with a spell.

“No match for all of us,” a Venatori mage declares. “Get rid of them!”

Cole flits away, leaps over the rail onto the lower level, and is suddenly stabbing a mage in the back. He dances away, blood dripping from his daggers, and vanishes before the others could react. That proves to be a fatal mistake for a Venatori mage; Maxwell grabs his dagger and flings it at the man’s back before turning and ramming his elbow into a Venatori soldier’s helm. The soldier falls back down the steps and Dorian sets him on fire. Bright lightning arcs the air, paralyzing a soldier, and leaps across several feet to shock another. Cole darts in, stabs the soldier in the inner thigh, and reappears at Maxwell’s side to hand back his bloodied dagger.

The two soldiers collapse and vibrant red pools around them as they bleed out. The Venatori mages seize their chance and draw the blood to them, creating a swirling vortex. The air suddenly tastes acrid, metallic, and wrong. The dead soldiers convulse, bodies contorting and skin turning grey and lumpy. Cole shakes his head furiously and turns away, a hand clasped over his right ear while the bodies transform.

“ _Kaffas,_ not good!” Dorian tries to interrupt the spell with a firestorm but the swirling vortex of blood douses the flames. He curses again. “Stop them!”

Maxwell throws his dagger again but the magicked blood solidifies into a grotesque shield. It then spreads like a mist, covering the ground, and eerie green cracks form in the earth. The anchor pulses, crackling brightly over Maxwell’s hand, as a demon pulls itself out of the Fade. More follow it while the newly turned abominations roar and charge at the Inquisitor.

“This is bad,” Maxwell says, hefting his greatsword, and swings it to block the abominations. He keeps them at bay for a few minutes, time enough for Cole to attack the demons from behind and for Dorian to throw them back down the steps with a telekinetic blast. “Any ideas?”

“Kill them all? That’s worked before,” Dorian says and aims lightning at a demon. It roots the creature to the spot and then leaps to the next body. “Keep the demons back. I’ll handle the mages.”

Maxwell nods and leaps down the steps, ramming his armored shoulder into a demon. It whirls around with an indignant scream and Maxwell slams his sword pommel into its face. It stumbles back and he cuts it down with a wide swing. Momentum carries him forward and around to deflect an abomination’s attack; ichor sprays across his face as he cuts deep into the mottled flesh. Cole leaps onto its shoulders, drives his daggers into the base of its neck, twists hard, and vanishes as the headless creature falls. 

“Behind you,” Cole’s voice whispers, and Maxwell turns to block a demon’s elongated claws. He shoves the demon back and turns sharply on the balls of his feet to stop another one from interfering with a pitched battle between Tevinter mages.

The air is thick with magic and blood, prickling and thrumming with spells as Dorian tries to break through the Venatori’s blood-fueled barriers. It solidifies and repulses his attacks but so long as Dorian keeps spellcasting, the Venatori mages can’t take their focus off their blood barrier to retaliate. It’s impressive how well Dorian holds his own against multiple mages but he can’t do it forever.

“I can do it,” Cole decides, apparently reading Maxwell’s mind, and in the blink of an eye, he’s within the barrier, shredding a mage apart in a flurry of blades. 

The blood barrier collapses as the Venatori try to catch Cole and then a mage suddenly screams, dropping his staff to claw at his head. Dorian sets him on fire and shrouds himself in a barrier to block the other Venatori’s spells. Cole flits in and out of the anxious cluster of mages, stabbing one in the shoulder and another behind the knee. A telekinetic burst throws him off his feet but Dorian hexes the soldiers charging at the spirit, disorienting them. Cole easily evades their clumsy strikes and cuts them down.

A demon catches Maxwell under the chin and throws him across the courtyard. His head rings and his lip throbs painfully as he pushes himself up on his knees. He blinks rapidly and his eyes slowly focus on the demon’s hulking mass as it advances. His sword is several feet away and he scrambles for it, grasps it bloody blade with one hand, and swings it up at the demon hilt first. The demon stumbles, stunned by the unexpectedly heavy blow and Maxwell quickly adjusts his grip on the sword before gutting the creature. 

He wipes blood off his mouth and turns at the sound of a falling body. Cole leaps away from the last Venatori soldier, dripping red across the stained tiles. Maxwell stumbles over a dying abomination, kicking away its clawed hand when it grasps his ankle, and runs to Dorian. A great pool of blood and three fallen mages are all that separates him from Lucanus, the mage in charge of the Venatori excavation. A fine red mist swirls around the Venatori and the air tastes of iron.

“You will not take what rightfully belongs to the Elder One,” Lucanus hisses. The pool of blood vibrates with each word. His hard eyes spot Maxwell and he turns with a gesture. “You! Pretender, you will not leave these ruins alive-”

Maxwell stumbles, crashes to his knees with a choking gasp at the agonizing white hot pain under his skin. Blood roars in his head, ear-splitting like a high dragon’s scream, and the agony abruptly subsides. He lifts his head to see the Venatori mage fighting a losing battle against Dorian and Cole, though all Cole is doing is distracting Lucanus from seizing the blood around him. Dorian is the one driving him into the ground, spell after spell, Tyrdda’s staff blazing like the sun as he gouges the mage again and again. Blood drips around the Venatori’s feet as he stumbles and staggers, trying in vain to separate himself from the furious mage.

The battle finally ends when Maxwell gets to his feet and throws his dagger at Lucanus. With a wet gasp, Lucanus drops to the ground. He mumbles incoherently while grasping at the dagger sticking out of his chest and falls silent.

The ruins are still again.

His knees give out and Maxwell sits down hard, breathing harshly while staring at the carnage all around him. How could so few people turn the courtyard into such a bloodbath? Previous encounters with blood mages were few and far between, and those mages could not have done what the Venatori did just now. And what Lucanus tried to do to him - what was that?

Cole gingerly picks through Lucanus’s robes, searching for information, perhaps another piece of the keystone, but Dorian walks through the pools of blood to Maxwell’s side. He crouches, uncaring of the edge of his robes skimming red, and studies Maxwell with a tight frown.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“Been better,” Maxwell admits. He drags a hand through his sticky damp hair, raking it off his forehead. “I’ve seen blood magic before. In the Hinterlands. It wasn’t. Not this.”

“I’m not surprised.” He looks at the bodies of the Venatori mages . “They’ve been practicing for years, unlike your southern Circle mages. They knew what they were doing.”

“What _were_ they doing?” Maxwell asks. He’s half-watching Cole pull free a bloody silk pouch from within Lucanus’s robes and empty the contents into his hand.

“Besides stopping us from stopping them? He may have tried to take control of you,” Dorian says tersely. “Something the templars can’t do.”

The words numb. His heart beats loudly, heavily. “They’re going to try that. All of them.”

“Not while I’m here,” Dorian says. He lifts his hand and gently touches Maxwell’s lip. It stings and Maxwell flinches away, making Dorian grimace. “Something to watch out for until the Venatori are all dead.”

“They will be,” Maxwell says. He slowly gathers his feet under him and stands up. Dorian steadies him when he wobbles and they slowly cross the courtyard to Cole, who’s peering intently at a piece of carved stone in his pale fingers.

“We need three more,” he tells Maxwell. “I can hear them.”

“What about what they’re for?” Maxwell asks. “Do you know?”

“A keystone is a key,” Cole says. “Like for that.” He points to a set of stairs leading up to a pair of massive doors sealed shut by an odd locking mechanism. “It’s waited for a very long time to sing again.”

“Couldn’t they have just broken the doors?” Maxwell wonders.

“Magic requires finesse, not brute force,” Dorian replies. “Especially when a battle between mages and demons sits between us and the way out of this place.”

“And a rift.” Now he can see why the Venatori were taking great pains to collect every piece of the keystone. They didn’t want to destroy the part of the ruins holding the “key” to unlocking Veil-tearing magic. “Cole?”

“One is over there,” he says, pointing to another dead mage. “And the others… up there.” He points at the offices running along the side of the main chamber.

It takes thirty minutes of careful sifting through layers of sand and ancient clutter to find the keystones. The original occupants of the ruins were cautious to the point of paranoid and it doesn’t help that Dorian insists they handle every single thing as delicately as possible. He almost snaps at Cole for bending the corner of a diagram while pushing it aside to unlock a hidden drawer. While Cole goes through the drawer’s crumbling contents, Dorian picks up said diagram and frowns at it.

“What did they ever see in this?” he mutters. “Does this look viable to you - you wouldn’t know, never mind.”

“Send it back to Skyhold anyway,” Maxwell says while going through the dusty shelves. “... is this made of bones?”

Cole finally finds the keystone piece in yet another hidden drawer. He drops it into Dorian’s outstretched hand, then cocks his head to the side and wanders out of the study. “This way.”

Once they find the last keystone piece, Dorian sets them on the old desk in the study and melds them together with a burst of magic. He holds the keystone up to the sunlight and says, “Looks familiar, doesn’t it.”

The lock on the doors across the courtyard is shaped just so that only a keystone molded to the exact dimensions would fit inside and trigger the mechanism. Maxwell and Cole take position on each side of the door, weapons drawn. At a nod, Dorian sets the keystone in and turns the mechanism. Something unlocks with a high-pitched screech, the rust grinding and coming off as the doors unlock for the first time in hundreds of years.

“Well, this looks promising,” Dorian declares.

Within the chamber is a scene just like the one in the main hall - mages frozen in time. Beyond them is a steel pedestal holding a staff; its head is carved grayed wood wrapping around a treated human skull. There’s a body at its feet in a pool of frozen blood and crimson droplets float around what looks like a glowing void above the staff. A mage was bled here to fuel the spell trapping everyone in time for over a thousand years. 

Something prickles at the back of Maxwell’s throat, a faint presence of magic and power that makes him cough into his elbow as they approach the grotesque display. Cole looks increasingly uneasy, shifting restlessly and scratching his head under his wide-brimmed hat while searching for escape.

“You can taste it, too?” Dorian asks while taking measured steps around the pedestal, observing the spell. “This is the source. Once I break the spell, the channel will collapse and the rift will become active again.”

“Good thing I’m here then,” Maxwell says before coughing again to force the itch out of his throat. The anchor pulses as he draws near, reacting to this contained link to the Fade.

Dorian squares his shoulders but hesitates. “The rift won’t be the only thing to come alive again. Are you sure?”

“Better us than the Venatori,” Maxwell says. He’ll let himself feel tired after sealing the rift and claiming what the Venatori want most from this place. “I’m sure.”

“Hold your breath,” Cole advises.

“Plan to,” Dorian says and carefully reaches through the swirling blood. “Brace yourselves.”

Maxwell hefts his greatsword. “Now.”

* * *

“It saw terrible things,” is all Cole will say about the thousand-year-old staff, an ominous declaration. Maxwell can’t stop eyeing the polished skull as they go up the stairs and trips several times over broken stone.

“It won’t bite,” Dorian says when he sees Maxwell glancing at it yet again halfway up the last flight of stairs. “Not unless I make it.”

“You’re not helping,” Maxwell says. “If the Venatori wanted it, then it’s dangerous-”

“It feels like a regular stave - no more powerful than the one strapped to my back that the soldiers dug up in… wherever. As long as I don’t try tapping directly into the Fade, we’re safe.”

“Right.”

Lenn and two of the Inquisition are waiting by the doors, weapons unsheathed. They brace themselves for the worst when Maxwell pushes the doors open and then relax when they realize it’s him. The hot arid air is a welcome respite from the stifling blood-tinged atmosphere within the ruins and he spends a good few seconds just breathing deeply. The sun is still high in the sky but he feels many years older. He blames it on the ruins’ old secrets, and the Venatori.

“Worship,” Lenn says, drawing his attention back to the present.

He nods to the dwarf. “How’s Sergeant Haley?”

“Well as can be, but would be best to take her back to camp.” Lenn looks over his shoulder at the stairs leading out of the old building. “Venatori might try to take this back so we need more manpower to hold it. Also saw some hyenas sniffing around. And spiders.”

Maxwell grimaces. “I’ll tell Harding.”

Lenn pulls out Sergeant Harding’s map and points at an area marked in smudged red chalk. “Fastest route to camp but, uh, there’s a rift here. Could cause problems.”

He sighs while his left hand twitches. There seems to be no catching any breaks for the Inquisitor. “I’ll need a minute.”

The soldiers look at him, Dorian, and Cole deliberately, eyebrows arching at the splotches of blood, dents, gouges, and tears in their clothes and armor. Lenn steps back with a salute. “Of course, Your Worship. If you need rest, we repurposed the Venatori camp for your use.”

The thought of being anywhere near the Venatori’s things churns his stomach. Instead, Maxwell goes to the oasis to drink and wash his face. Blood drips into the clear water and he frowns, runs his tongue along his split lip to clean it.

“Just a few drops in a black sea. That’s all this is,” Cole says solemnly. He’s standing in the shallows, watching pink drip from his stained fingers. The light scratches on them and his face are already fading away. “She doesn’t like other thoughts.”

“She?” Maxwell asks though he suspects he knows what Cole means.

“You don’t like it either. Nobody does.” Cole wades out of the oasis. “It’s not what they are.” He says in a more quiet voice, “It’s not what I am. My thoughts are mine, too.”

Maxwell frowns at Cole’s back while the spirit wanders to the Venatori camp. Dorian is still on his feet, browsing the contents of the crates and chests the Venatori left behind. Maxwell watches them both while Cole’s words circle his mind. He touches his lip again and shudders at the phantom pain in his limbs, at the paralyzing agony as his blood ran hot and seemed to boil under his skin. And then he takes a deep dry breath to push down the bile at the back of his throat, the pit of white hot anger in his stomach at what the Venatori mage had dared to do.

Lucanus is dead now. The Venatori agents here are all dead. He saw to that. It is enough.

He gets to his feet and walks past the repurposed camp to the Inquisition outpost, which is little more than hastily built barricades and a tent repurposed into shelter from the blistering sun. Sergeant Haley sits on a crate under it, frowning with her mouth wiggling this way and that like she’s still trying to get rid of the elfroot taste.

“Inquisitor,” she says, trying to stand to salute, but he holds his hand up. She sits back down, twitching while biting back a pained sound. “Orders, ser?”

“Hold the camp. The quickest way back to Harding’s camp is past a rift so I’m going ahead to clear the way. Shouldn’t take more than several hours to bring in reinforcements.”

“Understood, Worship.”

Hauling Dorian out of the crates by the collar of his dusty stained robes is a near thing. The mage halfheartedly threatens the soldiers with hexes if he finds damaged goods in them and then reluctantly follows Maxwell, Cole, and a soldier through the canyon to the rift. He takes the old staff with him, trusting no one but himself it guard it.

The trek is largely uneventful but tiring as they tread across deep hot sand. The only signs of life they see for long minutes is a small cackle of hyenas studying them from the shadow of a protruding rock shelf. Maxwell watches them until they’re out of sight but the beasts never attempt to follow. 

The anchor bursts and crackles before they see the rift in front of the ancient Gates of Toth, the second of the day, and Maxwell draws out his sword. A barrier shimmers around the party as they round the corner and the rift swells in the anchor’s presence, splits open with a tremendous burst that kicks up sand, and spills demons into the Approach. Maxwell wipes grit out of his face and steps forward with a swing, using momentum to throw back a demon. He pivots and attacks another one, knocking it down. Arrows find their marks and the shade demon shrieks while shriveling and vanishing back into the Fade. He glances over his shoulder at the soldier quickly notching another arrow and searching for her next target.

Her arrow is true but the demon roars in response, body swelling with fire and incinerating the arrow. Cole dances away from the flames but can’t get close again as the demon slides across the sand towards her. Under a desert sun, the demon is an unbearable presence, melting sand into glass in its wake. Maxwell’s sword has reach but the demon burns too hotly for him to get close.

“Dorian!” he calls out and then shoves the soldier out of the way when the demon belches fire at them.

A shade screeches as it dies and Dorian leaps over its wilting body at the raging demon. With a sweep of his staff, he shrouds the demon in ice, bringing winter to the Approach. Startled, Maxwell doesn’t react in time and the demon throws him aside with its ice-crusted arm. In a matter of seconds, the ice evaporates but Dorian bombards it with more ice, slowing it down while dousing the flames. It bellows when the soldier fires an arrow at its shoulder and then again when Cole swipes at it with his daggers.

“That was used to open a rift _and maintain it_!” Maxwell yells while scrambling to his feet. 

“Don’t worry,” Dorian says tersely, spins the skull-capped staff about him, and then raises a hailstorm.

Maxwell ducks while lumps of hard ice shred the rage demon, diminishing it until Dorian encases it in thick layers of ice. Cole leaps onto its back and shatters it into pieces with his daggers. Other demons, slowed to a crawl by the sudden storm, muster a pathetic defense as Maxwell cuts them down and banishes them back to the Fade. He raises his hand to the slowly widening rift and wills it shut.

The ice melts and vanishes in the blink of an eye. There’s still a glossy sheen where the fire demon melted sand under its massive bulk. A dry wind picks up and a layer of sand covers the glass. It’ll bury a demon’s footsteps in less than a day.

A patrol greets them on the way back to camp and Harding herself awaits them, rocking back and forth on her dusty boots. She frowns while stepping forward. “Inquisitor. Where-”

“At the ruins,” Maxwell says while the others disperse. He wants to follow them and take refuge in a tent but duty calls and he follows her to the rickety table under the trees. The missives scattered all over it are new. “Took over the camp but we need reinforcements in case the Venatori return.”

Harding looks around the camp, counting heads. “I can send eight to the ruins with supplies. How long are we staying there?”

“A few days to finish excavations,” Maxwell says. “Can’t let anything fall into Venatori hands.”

“Did you find out what they were doing there?”

“I think the Venatori are under orders to find other ways of entering the Fade. What better place to look than an old Tevinter research facility?” He looks over his shoulder and spots Dorian still holding the old skull-capped staff. “What we found was… whatever the mages were doing there might’ve helped Corypheus enter the Fade again but they’re all dead and we have what he wanted.”

“Which is…?”

“Not what he’d expect, and then _someone_ used it on some demons without testing it first.”

Dorian waves the old stave and loudly says, “I’m a mage, I know how to handle my staff. Immensely powerful but not inherently dangerous, and in your hands instead of the Venatori’s.”

He winks at Maxwell before strolling away. Mortified, Maxwell drops his eyes to the map and awkwardly says, “Did you hear from the others?”

Harding fails to hide her smirk while sliding over a few messages. “Bull made contact with the researcher and is spending the night there. White Claws are giving them problems but it’s nothing he can’t handle. No word from the Champion or Varric yet but I wouldn’t be too worried. Cassandra sent a scout back with a report. No Wardens sighted but the Venatori at that old keep are acting up. Either they discovered something or you spooked them.”

“Might’ve been me,” Maxwell says. “Does Bull know why the Venatori are interested in the researcher?”

“It might have something to do with that Abyssal high dragon Pierre’s so fond of,” Harding replies, rolling her eyes. “He’s studying her. Those supply caravans the White Claws were raiding were for his research.”

“Why do they care that he’s studying dragons?” A beat. “Or is it the dragon they want?”

“I don’t know, but the thought of fighting a second black dragon is making me nauseous.”

“Good thing Bull’s there.” 

Maxwell leans on the table, more to brace himself than to take a closer look at the map. There are new notes scrawled all over it, updates on Inquisition and Venatori movements and positions. It almost looks like a chessboard. He taps a finger on the red chalk circling a part of Echoback Canyon. “What’s this?”

“One of the many hazards of traveling through the Approach - toxic springs. If the wind blows wrong, you’ll have a camp full of soldiers emptying their stomachs and attracting phoenixes. Keeps the Venatori away, though.”

He sighs and rubs the back of his head, raining sand and dried blood flecks on the map. He’s not sure what’s the next step; thwarting the Venatori at every turn is always a solid plan but they’re here for the Wardens and they haven’t shown themselves. How long is the Inquisition supposed to wait until Stroud arrives?

“Tell me if you hear anything from Varric or Hawke,” he says. “Let’s focus on securing the ruins. We took several crates of old Tevinter artifacts from the Venatori and Dorian wants them shipped back to Skyhold immediately. If Corypheus wants them, we want them more.”

Harding nods and beckons to a waiting agent. “I’ll have the men ready in two hours.”

Maxwell trudges to the tents and stops in front of the one closest to the oasis. A small golden tassel hangs from one of the poles, marking the Inquisitor’s quarters. He looks down at himself and decides to shed his armor outside instead of tracking in sand and dried blood. He leaves them in a pile in front of the tent, too tired to pick the pieces up to inspect for damage, and walks to the water’s edge to scrub his hands and face clean. 

He looks up at a hollow snort and sees the Bog Unicorn wading through the oasis, followed at a distance by a nervous soldier.

“It’s not troubling you, is it?” he calls out, startling the man.

“No, serah, not at all,” the soldier replies hastily in a Marcher accent. Hasmal, perhaps? “Just, just that it don’t stay put like other horses. Frees itself and wanders around the grounds like its own patrol. No one wants to - I don’t know what to do, serah, I’m sorry.”

Maxwell bites back a smile and says, “Let it be. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

“Um, yes, if you say so. Serah. Worship.”

The soldier quickly retreats, leaving Maxwell with the Bog Unicorn. The undead creature walks up to him and inspects him with an unseeing eye.

“Not used to fighting Venatori,” he tells it. “Haven’t seen them since Redcliffe, and now they’re here.” He thinks about the damp hallways and the prickling of shifting stone, red lyrium sprouting and spreading throughout the castle. “Whatever they want, I want it more.”

The Bog Unicorn butts his cheek with its bony muzzle and wades to the other end of the oasis.

Sighing, Maxwell splashes water on his face one more time and goes back to his tent. His armor is missing, probably requisitioned by a soldier to repair. He can picture Blackwall’s scowling lecture about it in his head and smiles to himself while entering the tent. 

“Why is that here?”

Dorian doesn’t look up from the staff and notebook in his lap. He’s sitting in the center, still fully clothed and sending up small puffs of sand everywhere when he moves. “It maintained a stable channel to the Fade to power that failsafe and did so for a thousand years. Powerful thing, no doubt enhanced by the blood magic used in crafting it. Corypheus must’ve known something was happening here or the Venatori wouldn’t have come.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Maxwell says while unbuckling his belt and dagger and dropping it next to his saddlebags. The sash and stained leather coat follow it. “Why is it _here_?”

“Because I don’t trust anybody else to handle it.”

He won’t win this particular argument. With a shrug, he crouches down, grimacing when it aggravates his sore muscles, and searches through one of his packs for a vial. If Cole’s comments mean what he thinks they mean, then a fresh dose of dragon blood should help him if a Venatori mage attempts to seize control again.

“Isn’t it too soon for that?” Dorian asks.

“No.” Maxwell uncaps the vial and his nose prickles at the raw metallic scent. He pours the contents into his mouth and swallows harshly but the blood sears a line down his throat anyway. “Should’ve taken it earlier today, actually.”

The mage frowns at him and Maxwell turns away, ramming the cork back in the vial and shoving it back in the saddlebag. He doesn’t talk until he hears Dorian writing in his journal.

“Harding is sending reinforcements in two hours,” he says. “Spend several days digging up everything the Venatori might want and ship them back to Skyhold.”

“Tell them to be careful with those crates. I’d hate to return after months out here in this miserable blighted desert only to find broken pottery inside. Waste of a perfectly good trip.”

“You tell them,” Maxwell says. “Just don’t threaten to hex them. I’m not explaining it to Cassandra or Fiona again.”

“Who told Fiona?”

He shrugs while kicking off his boots. “She wouldn’t say. You’re lucky nobody told Mother Giselle anything-”

“Let’s never go there.”

Maxwell sprawls out on a bedroll and turns on his side to face Dorian, who doesn’t look remotely exhausted by the long day. “We’re heading out in two hours. You should get some rest.”

“I have in my possession a staff crafted in Ancient during the height of the ancient Imperium that was used to breach the Fade and then maintain a failsafe for a thousand years,” Dorian replies while turning the staff over to observe something Maxwell can’t see. “Rest can wait.”

“Of course. What was I expecting from the man who complained for two weeks about missing his beauty sleep?”

Dorian huffs before turning his attention back to the staff, eyes bright with amusement. Maxwell stifles a yawn while considering the merits of sharing a tent with an enchanted human skull, and then a drowsy wave rolls over him and he dozes off in seconds. He wakes briefly at the feeling of fingers lightly stroking his scalp and sending pleasant shivers down his spine. He hums and buries his face in the crook of his arm while sinking back into sleep.

He dreams of a great shadow standing over him, wings outstretched to shield him. From what, he doesn’t know.


End file.
